Drop It
by Tomas the Betrayer
Summary: The imprisoned Horseman is spilling secrets. But if Ichabod Crane drops one more name to remind everyone how important he is, Abbie Mills will not be responsible for what happens next.
1. Chapter 1

"Not even once?" Ichabod Crane demanded with incredulity as they entered the subterranean Masonic cell.

Setting the tray bearing teapot and cups down on a table, Abbie Mills closed her eyes and sighed deeply. "No, Crane. There was no mention of you in _any _of the history books I read as a child. Or an adult," she added quickly when he appeared to seize on that notion.

In response her appointed companion huffed and tossed his hair, looking more like a supermodel on shoot than she could ever stand to explain to him. "I find this lapse in historical relevancy appalling," he stated without the slightest trace of self-deprecation. "To think that after all I contributed to the war effort, even to lay down my life itself, that my name should be completely erased from the pages of our nation's history, it… !"

He broke off and took two steps forward to invade her personal space, willfully ignoring the way she tensed at this proximity. Crane lowered his head to fix Abbie with what she half-jokingly thought of as his 'momentous face'. "I do daresay that this ranks among some of the grossest injustices ever perpetrated in all the annals of _human existence!"_

"Yeah, ranks right up there with the Tenth Plague and Jonestown."

This last came from Andy Brooks. Sitting passively in his seat, the post-mortem police officer crossed his arms and frowned at Ichabod. Across from him their other prisoner, the Headless Horseman, expressed agreement by vigorously jabbing his middle finger in Crane's direction. This was the most the red-coated ghoul could manage. Imprisoned at the center of a mystic circle, outstretched arms chained to stone columns and hellish strength drained by UV lamps, the Horseman of Death otherwise posed no further threat.

Ichabod rounded on his ancient nemesis without paying Brooks any mind. "Have a care, monster! Lest you forget, it was _I _who thwarted your nefarious aim to bring Armageddon down upon an unsuspecting world! Indeed, with one swift sure strike did I_ cut off your head, _laying waste to your master Moloch's plans and charting a bright future for… "

Abbie did not respond to any of this. She had figured out early in their relationship that Crane was rather impressed with himself, more than the average person would consider healthy. Or, to come right down to it, sane. She strongly suspected that his mental self-perception included himself as a titanic shining figure standing on a rotating plinth around which choirs of archangels wept and humbled themselves in testament to his greatness.

While she pondered this, America's unsung hero continued to prattle on. "And to think that I led the charge in bringing our world out of the shadow of tyranny under which it had labored for centuries! Why, my very good friend and trusted colleague John Hancock once said…"

That was another thing she had come to learn very fast. While he might have been shunned from the nation's history, Ichabod Crane did hold the rather dubious title of being America's very first Name-dropper.

"… that barring the nobility, he had never met a person who housed such profoundly monumental traits as myself…"

_Translation: you're a king-sized asshole,_ Abbie thought while she poured a cup of tea and handed it to Brooks, who accepted this small kindness with shame-faced gratitude.

"… and he would endeavor to compose a testament encompassing my most salient and pertinent qualities, to be delivered to Washington himself…"

'_Dear George: This guy Crane is an asshole. If you have any suicide missions targeting large axe-wielding agents of the apocalypse, he's your man. Just tell him it's an honor. Win-win situation either way.'_

"…after I made sure to verify its quality and grammatical accuracy, of course, the man simply didn't know how to _properly _dip a quill pen, I had to demonstrate the correct manner to him _ad naueseum…_"

Behind her the Horseman snapped his fingers to get her attention, then held up two fingers. She recognized this meant he liked two sugars in his tea. Dropping the cubes in another cup, she approached that gruesome specter warily while Crane continued to wax rhapsodic on his favorite topic, lost in the spell of his own conceit. Even bound and chained like this, she did not discount the undead warrior as a threat, any more than she fully trusted Andy not to betray them sooner or later regardless of how helpful he might currently be. Still, while he was their prisoner, they might as well try to appeal to his better side… assuming he had one.

With that Mills produced a funnel she had purchased from a local gas station. Resisting the urge to squirm, she then reached up and quickly inserted the spout into the creature's exposed esophagus before pouring the steaming beverage in. There was an uncomfortable glugging sound, and the Horseman gave her a thumbs-up to indicate he was done, after which she retrieved the funnel.

_Damn, I lead a weird life, _she pondered while returning to the table. In the meantime Crane still hadn't shut up, and she took the time to appraise him. While hopelessly vain, snobbish, condescending, elitist, abrasive, overbearing and possessed of a growing Messianic complex, she had to admit Ichabod Crane was…

"… forced to correct Adam Smith, my worthy correspondent, on his inferior economic theories so as to render your modern 'Wealth of Nations' not a complete travesty…"

… okay, let's face it, he's just Crane. That's all there is to it.

Behind her, a sinister voice chuckled. **'Have you come to understand the nature of the beast, mademoiselle?'**

Abbie whirled about. Sitting in his chair, Andy Brooks' eyes had gone black, his previous hangdog expression metamorphosed into one that was much more confident. She recognized that once again the Horseman was preferring to communicate through his appointed mouthpiece. The man she had once called friend was no longer in evidence, his personality and whatever might still pass for his soul subsumed by the force which animated the headless thing standing not ten feet away.

'**I appreciate your predicament. It is difficult to come to terms with all at once,' **that suddenly menacing figure intoned in a voice drawn straight from Hell itself. **'I myself failed to grasp the full extent of Ichabod Crane's vainglory in life. You see, there was once upon a time…'**

* * *

"So, Ichabod, what say you? Will Katrina appreciate this token, almost as lovely as she?"

Smiling, Abraham von Brunt indicated one of the resplendent necklaces laid out on a velvet cloth. The jeweler beamed at hearing his wares so praised, no doubt already tasting the profit he could count upon from this transaction. Being one of the wealthiest men in this part of the world, Abraham was more than capable of affording such a gift for the woman he loved. He counted himself well and truly blessed in all areas where it truly mattered in this life, be it in health, wealth, strength, length…

"_I cannot abide this!" _an impassioned voice cried.

Abraham's mouth tightened. Well, perhaps there were some areas where he had not been so fortunate.

Striding about the parlor of the von Brunt manor, Ichabod Crane continued to behave like an overwrought actor in a passion play. He would stomp his feet, cross his arms and snort like a bull before spinning around to go marching the length and breadth of the room. Then he would lift one foot and rest it securely on any available piece of furniture (regardless of it being designed for such a purpose), placing one hand grandiosely on his hip and tossing his hair back in the manner of a French chanteuse to gaze haughtily off into the distance at heaven only knew what. Once his contemplation was complete it was back to pacing the floor. This performance and variations of it had been Ichabod's hallmark ever since Abraham's engagement to Katrina was announced. And it was growing steadily worse as the time of their nuptials drew near.

"No, I cannot… _will _not allow Katrina to be subjected to such an inferior and impersonal excuse for a love token! It is beyond the pale of human endurance that someone incapable of grasping anything so basic might ever aspire to hold a place in her heart!"

Crane surged forward suddenly to slam his hands on the table and glare at them both, causing the startled jeweler to jump in shock. For his part, Abraham did not move a muscle, though it cost him greatly in terms of self-control.

"She is not gaudy in the manner of this cheap bauble you propose to fling at her, she is refined, _refined, _I tell you!" Ichabod's voice trembled, increasing in volume and outraged reproach with every breath he took. "Katrina is elegant, alluring but modest, unassuming yet insightful, feminine but strong, independent, and above all understated, _understated, do you hear?" _He then reached down, snatched up a small emerald brooch and thrust it to dangle right before Abraham's nose. _"Like this!"_

Gazing at that quivering academic caught in the throes of self-righteous ardor, Abraham slowly took the proffered necklace and stated in cold, clipped tones, "Thank you, Ichabod, for your welcome insight into my… _fiancée!" _

He made sure to emphasize that last. Breathing and perspiring heavily, Crane seemed to finally grasp the import of this word. "Yes… of course, Abraham," he stated, drawing himself up and lifting his chin high to gaze over their heads, a slight jerkiness causing his head to twitch every now and then. "Of course you are… most welcome. I am pleased to offer aid to my two closest… _friends_…" he spit the word as though it were a disease, "… in the whole world."

With that he turned on his heel and resumed pacing the room in the same exaggerated manner as before. Von Brunt and the jeweler sat observing this performance wordlessly. After a while, however, the merchant turned a puzzled look on his host. "I thought you said he was your friend?"

Somewhat disconsolately, the young landowner sighed. "Yes," he acknowledged in glum tones as Ichabod struck yet another grandiloquent pose with one foot on an armoire. "Yes, he is."

* * *

"Hold on, how could you know all this?" Abbie stopped as something occurred to her, and her eyes grew wide. "Wait a minute, are _you_…?!"

Brooks grinned crookedly. **'But wait, there is more…'**

* * *

Among all the guests attending Abraham von Brunt's party, Ichabod Crane stood out in terms of sheer sour mood. He answered any entreaties or polite comments directed his way with outright scorn before turning away to wrap himself in his own woeful self-absorption. At least, until…

"Ichabod."

The former Oxford professor whirled about to be faced with a bewitching vision of loveliness in a dark green dress. "Katrina," he announced stiffly. Crane avoided looking at her for too long, instead attempting to appear engrossed in the arrangement of candles in the chandelier overhead.

Seeing him like this, the willowy woman smiled, toying with the pendant she now wore. "I simply wished to thank you for such a spellbinding gift. The moment Abraham showed it to me I recognized your most discerning eye at work. I was honored beyond all words that it be so."

He twitched a nod in her direction while keeping his restless gaze occupied elsewhere. "Yes, well… it was the least I could do."

"Oh, Ichabod, Ichabod!" Katrina breathed as she stepped closer to him. "Why are you so distressed? Is it not obvious that I could never love a man who did not afford me the natural liberties with which God has endowed us all? Are we not fighting this war to be freed from such tyrannies, able to live as our hearts and souls command?" She hesitantly reached out a worshipful hand to touch his sleeve. "I am bound by both to love only one so worthy in this world… and that arcane man is undoubtedly you!"

His head snapped around, eyes alight with eager surprise. "Yes!"

"I have loved you from the moment I first laid eyes on you, Ichabod Crane!" Katrina fell to her knees and clutched his legs feverishly. "It is as though you cast a spell upon me! There can be no greater sum of parts than rest within you, and I am completely enchanted by your noble mien. Our hearts do beat as one even now, without the need for a mere terrestrial ceremony to symbolize the unification of our spirits!"

"YEEES!" Ichabod thundered in return, striking a dramatic pose with one foot upon a settee and a hand on his hip.

Now the supposedly independent feminist had flung her arms around his shanks as she continued to wail. "Oh, Ichabod, do not torture me for another day with your absence! Let us be bound anew in mutual love and respect, our destinies forever entwined in this brave new world of individual freedom which we craft!"

Crane was in a paroxysm of delight, grinning hugely, eyes wide and head flung back. "It shall be so!" he declared with unbridled triumph. "You shall take my name, with your thoughts and wishes ever subordinate to my own hereafter, as nature intended!"

At this his idolater appeared to give pause. "Err, Ichabod, that wasn't quite what I meant by mutual respect. I thought you valued my opinion and…"

"IT SHALL BE SO!" Crane trumpeted.

"Yes, it shall be so!" Any notions of feminine empowerment and personal liberty were swept right out of Katrina's pretty little head at this pronouncement. She fell to kissing his foot in ardent devotion to the divine presence. "I am yours forever after, Ichabod Crane! Accept this poor unworthy penitent's meager adoration as is your due! All my arts are yours to command! Oh, Ichabod, Ichabod!"

"Ichabod!" he cried out his own name before striding purposefully off as though guided by angels.

"ICHABOD!" Katrina screamed in return while clutching his coattails to be dragged behind him without heed.

Meanwhile every last remaining person in that ballroom, from the dinner guests down to the liveried servants, was staring at this weird sight. Even the small orchestra had stopped playing to let their instruments dangle, wondering if this were some new form of entertainment previously unheard of.

At the center of a small crowd of embarrassed well-wishers, Abraham von Brunt stood holding an untouched champagne flute. He watched the two of them go at it right there, in his home, in full view of a hundred influential people. The other partygoers were uncertain how they might even begin to broach such a topic to their host. Abraham did not move, nor did he speak. Only his eyes might have served to give any indication as to his current thoughts, and they had narrowed down to two very dangerous slits.

* * *

It was hard to believe a word that came out of the Horseman's… trachea, but given what she knew about the Cranes there existed an undeniable air of truth to this story. "Crane, are you hearing this?" Abbie indicated where the revenant rider remained imprisoned.

"… truth be told, my admirable acquaintance Benedict Arnold always struck me as a superior commander to Washington. And his dedication to our cause was unrivalled! Which is not to say unsurpassed, for of course I…"

That, or she was simply inclined to accept anything bad about Ichabod Crane.

Brooks nodded as though satisfied at her uncertainty. **'The end proceeded naturally from there.'**

* * *

Abraham was not having a good day. He had accepted this secret mission from General Washington to transfer documents vital to their kindred, ostensibly out of respect for its significance. While a staunch supporter of the fight for independence, however, his real motivation had been an unspoken desire to take his mind off Katrina, who had officially ended their relationship last night. No mention of Ichabod was made, nor the humiliation they had both submitted him to. She seemed blissfully convinced that he remained unaware whom precisely she was leaving him for. Abraham chose not to enlighten her on what no doubt everyone in the 13 Colonies and beyond had already learned by now.

"I cannot! No, I will _not _bear it, the very idea is…!"

Of course, the hand of Fate wasn't quite done slapping him around, it seemed.

Ichabod was walking just a few paces behind him as they moved through the forest. In some manner almost supernatural in nature, he had learned of the secret mission being conducted and burst in on their counsel to 'volunteer' his completely necessary services. Crane seemed to believe that anything momentous was his provenance by divine decree. To make matters worse, his previous high spirits at the party had once more been replaced by that overwrought stomping and blustering act. And what had been a carefully banked ember of resentment in Abraham's heart was swift being fanned into a raging torment of pure unadulterated hatred!

"Abraham, stop, I must speak to you regarding Katrina!"

He drew to a halt without turning around. Abraham von Brunt's jaw was clenched so tight as to render speech impossible at this point. By all that was holy, there seemed no end to that preening blackguard's vanity! They had to complete this enterprise, for the sake of the Colonial Army! Yet he chose now of all times to throw salt into his wounds?!

Unaware of seemingly anything outside of his own swollen hubris, Ichabod stood with hands on his hips glaring at the leaf-strewn ground like it had offended him. "I understand you are in distress at her ending of your betrothal, but hear me out! Katrina is not to blame in this matter. For you see…" And here he flung back his flowing locks and uttered in bold tones, "I am the one who has captured her heart!"

Slowly, very, very slowly, Abraham turned to face him.

"Do tell, Ichabod."

In response Crane huffed and proceeded pacing the forest floor. "It is a testament to our friendship that I can forfend any rancor at your placing me in this predicament. But my love for both you and Katrina demands that I clear the air between us! And as your friend I request… nay, I _demand…_" he stopped and gazed skyward in total rapture, "… that you give us your blessing. At once."

While engrossed in his pontifications, Crane failed to notice that Abraham had drawn his flintlock pistol.

"In truth, I was not surprised that she would fall victim to my charms. Why, Benjamin Thompson himself, who is no stranger to women's affections in addition to being a close personal comrade of mine, was often loath to concede that in the area of classic Grecian physiognomy, his features were far removed from my own."

Von Brunt unslung his powder horn to carefully begin measuring out an appropriate amount into the barrel. Not too much now; don't want to make a mess.

"But my mere countenance was only half the reason for my completely unasked for triumph over you!"

At this point Abraham paused for a few seconds while his pulse subsided to less than deafening levels. A growl emerged from his throat. Then he proceeded to select an appropriate shot, rejecting several as inferior before finding a nice fat sphere which he inserted into the pistol.

Meanwhile Ichabod heaved a sign and lifted forearm to brow in the classic posture of distress. "In truth, the one for whom my sympathy is truly reserved for in this wretched lover's triangle is Katrina. She could not help herself! Her poor little feminine bird brain was simply overwhelmed by my burgeoning virtues, of which I am gifted in such abundance, I am sometimes almost embarrassed to admit."

Get the ramrod down the barrel, pack it in there nice and tight, and ta-dah, we have a murder weapon. Excellent! Satisfied, Abraham cocked the pistol to his shoulder. "Ichabod," he called out.

"Truly the female brain is simply not large enough to handle such higher orders of mental magnitude, as Franz Joseph Gall often confessed to me in his groundbreaking research regarding what I dubbed the science of phrenology!"

A little more forcefully. "Ichabod!"

"Naturally he found my own cranium to be nigh divine in its dimensions…"

"ICHABOD!"

At last the modern-day Narcissus rounded on him. "What _is_ it, Abraham? I am speaking here!"

A smile of perfect contentment touched the other man's lips, and he stated happily, "I'm going to kill you now, Ichabod."

"What?" Crane peered at him incredulously as though he had spoken in a foreign tongue. "You? Kill me? ME?!Have you taken leave of your wits, Abraham?" He thrust his head forward and placed both hands on hips, sputtering in offended dignity. "Without me, this revolution will end in abject failure! Lacking my guidance mankind has only utter ruin and desolation to contemplate in its future!" He flung an arm skyward in impassioned display. "Why, I daresay, without me the _stars themselves would plummet from the heavens! _The very firmament of Creation would fall around us! Seas would boil, the earth crack open and noxious humors of all sorts proliferate, _and Hell itself would follow!"_

So declaring, Ichabod Crane lifted one foot and, finding no suitable rock or stump on which to rest it, settled for simply holding his leg in that position while flinging back his hair to gaze fervently into the distance.

Abraham, for his part, had already taken careful aim at his former friend's temple. He could well imagine the musket ball penetrating Crane's forehead, followed by the splatter of red blood and brains emerging out the back, and he dearly wished for some handy portraitmaker to forever immortalize the stupid look on the little rodent's face that would result. He could swear he almost heard the shot already…

Right then a British musket ball took Abraham in the back and sent him pitching to his knees.

When he came to, the dying man found himself surrounded by Hessian military officers. Looming over all of them was a great horned figure whose image wavered like a vision seen over hot coals.

_**Mortal, **_that infernal entity declared, _**in exchange for your soul I offer you…**_

"I accept," von Brunt gasped out.

_**You didn't even let me finish. I was going to say…**_

"Yes, whatever." Abraham felt a sense of cold leeching away all pain and feeling from his limbs. "Just… give me another chance… to kill the bastard…" The world began to spin, darkness descended to claim Abraham von Brunt's soul, and in its place…

… there arose Death.

* * *

Andy Brooks blinked, his eyes going back to normal. He cracked his jaw with a groan. "Wow. That was… intense. So what did I say?"

He looked over to where Abbie Mills was staring at him with eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock. She then rounded upon Ichabod Crane. "My God, Crane, you are an _asshole!"_

"A giant throbbing asshole," Andy happily took up this point without any need for explanation. Unable to verbally confirm this sentiment, the Headless Horseman settled for once again giving Crane a very emphatic middle finger.

"I beg your pardon?" Ichabod regarded them all in perplexity. "What on earth brought about this sudden attack upon my person? Francis Marion himself could not have staged a more unexpected ambush, and I taught the Swamp Fox everything he knew!"

"No! That's it!" In a frenzy Abbie picked up the teapot and dashed it to the floor before rounding on the source of her frustration. "I have weathered headless horsemen, fire witches, dream assassins and God only knows what that thing in the root cellar was! But I'll be damned if I listen to one more of your self-righteous speeches about how great you are!" She drew a deep breath and screamed, "AND STOP MENTIONING ALL THE FAMOUS PEOPLE YOU KNEW! For your information, Benjamin Thompson and Benedict Arnold? They were both traitors! Big ones! Had to go into exile and live in Europe! Arnold's name is synonymous with backstabbing scumbags! Plus phrenology is _bullshit! It's known! AND I QUIT!"_

"You cannot quit! Need I remind you that we are sainted soldiers, endowed by heaven to bear witness to any manner of nefarious evils and combat them with our righteous authority!" He then placed one booted foot upon a crate, rested a hand on his hip and flung back his head to gaze loftily into the distance. "Should you abandon that charge I cannot speak as to the disposition of your immortal soul, leftenant, for as Paul Revere once confided in me…"

"STOP SAYING LEFTENANT! The pronunciation has changed in 200 years! And burning in hell would be preferable to spending another goddamn minute listening to… _say one more name and I will not be responsible for my actions!" _

She practically roared this last when Ichabod opened his mouth to speak. For a while they stared at one another, Abbie daring him to make a move or say a single word. The look on her face even penetrated his staggering vanity, enough to give him pause.

You wanna test me, she thought? Go ahead! _Go ahead!_ See what happens! You namedropping sunnuvabitch!

Finally Ichabod Crane coughed and said, "As I once remarked to Alexander Hamilton, or Hammy, as his real friends called him…"

* * *

Abbie Mills, Andy Brooks and Abraham von Brunt stood side by side admiring the sight before them. Even the Headless Horseman managed to look satisfied despite missing a head. For there, imprisoned at the center of a mystic circle, outstretched arms chained to stone columns and a dirty sock courtesy of Brooks' left foot stuffed into his mouth, was Ichabod Crane. The hero of ages could do no more than glare at them now while he remained strung up like a duck in a Chinese butcher shop window.

"I feel really good about this," Abbie grinned in contentment.

She then stepped forth and, to the astonishment of all present, proceeded to pants Ichabod, leaving him standing there with his breaches around his ankles and long johns exposed for all to see. For his part their captive appeared too stunned at this latest humiliation to even resist. Moving back to admire her handiwork, she glanced at her two accomplices. "Anything else you guys want to do?"

When the Horseman eagerly surged forward she added, "Besides killing him." Hell's flagbearer subsided in a sulky manner to consider further.

"Hold on." Hurrying forth, Andy reached into his pocket and produced a red rubber clown nose, of all things. This he proceeded to affix to Crane's schnoz, who remained immobile from shock. Giving it a firm 'Honk!' for verification, he nodded before rejoining their little cabal. "There. Much better."

Abbie felt the need to ask. "Brooks, why did you have something like that?"

"Oh, I don't know, Abbie," he responded curtly. "Why did Crane recognize the markings in my notebook as Egyptian hieroglyphics for speaking to the dead when the Rosetta Stone which allowed modern man to translate that ancient writing wasn't unearthed until Napoleon's time, decades after the Revolutionary War ended? You ever think about that, huh?"

"Let's not go crazy here." She glanced around a little warily, as if afraid any further discussion of this nature might destabilize the very fabric of their world.

Meanwhile the Horseman pondered for a while longer before lifting a finger in 'Ah-hah!' fashion. He took three steps forward and came to a rest before Ichabod. Von Brunt then placed one hand on his hip, threw back his nonexistent head, raised a foot regally in the air, and kicked Crane in the groin so hard it lifted him clear off the ground. _WUMPH! _There followed a muffled squeal, upon which the prisoner slumped between his shackles like a deflated balloon.

"The finishing touch," Abbie nodded. Following this she led them out the door. As the trio proceeded to leave that sunken crypt and its new occupant, she casually asked, "So you two wanna grab a cup of coffee before we part ways?"

"Sorry, I gotta get to my new digs," Brooks apologized. "So basically I'm going to hell. Wanna join us? We'd be glad to have you on board." Beside him the Horseman flashed a thumbs-up to indicate his agreement.

"Can't," the dedicated policewoman sighed morosely. "This has been fun, but… you guys are trying to destroy the world, and I can't be any part of that. Plus sooner or later my conscience will get the better of me and I'll have to let him out."

Andy appeared to accept this refusal with good grace. "I don't suppose there's any chance we could have Abraham's head now?"

Abbie shook her own in response. "Not even a little. I mean, I'm not really that bad a person. I just…" and here she shuddered, glancing back at where Ichabod hung like a rag doll, "… kinda wish I was, y'know?"

The decapitated demon patted her shoulder to express his profoundest sympathy, and she smiled at him. "Hey, don't feel bad for me, big guy. If anything, you're my inspiration to carry on now! I mean, you put up with that asshole for years. Seriously, how did you manage to do that, anyway?"

He pantomimed drinking, which made her smile. Remembering something, Mills reached into a pocket and produced the funnel from before which she then handed over to the Horseman. He actually looked touched by her gift. Probably wouldn't help her the next time they clashed, but it couldn't hurt. Now as close to friends as sworn enemies on different sides of the apocalypse could be, they all shook hands before departing, the two undead to the abyss, and Abbie back to her own personal hell.

Taking a seat to wait for Crane to come to, she reflected on her choices. It was entirely possible she was now damned, just as he had insinuated earlier. But the thought gave her little distress. Not because Abbie didn't believe in hell. No, it wasn't a question of faith. More like if that's what it took to get away from Ichabod Crane for all eternity, then break out the marshmallows…

I'm ready to roast.

_**FIN.**_


	2. Chapter 2

A lady crooning into a microphone accompanied by a piano; the soft flicker from candlelight on tables; clinking of glasses and whispers between amorous men and women. A more romantic spot could not be asked for. If you were into old MGM movies, that is.

Unfortunately the tune being sung was a karaoke version of 'Suddenly Seymour' and the singer was three sheets to the wind. The candles happened to be electric. And any visible couples were all wearing name tags and switching tables every two minutes. So even if you did long for the days of Sam Spade and Greta Garbo, you'd have better luck curling up on your couch with a controller and a bottle of Jack.

Sitting in a corner of the hotel bar off by herself, Lieutenant Abigail Mills had been nursing a rum and coke since walking in here ten minutes past. Alcohol did not seem to be any sort of panacea tonight. In truth, she had recently skipped out on the most disastrous blind date in the history of mankind, all thanks to her well-meaning and thoroughly discredited sister Jenny.

It had seemed like a good suggestion. Get out of the house, away from Ichabod Crane, possibly have some fun that did not involve soul-sucking monsters popping out of the woodwork. Y'know, like normal people did. Those not privy to the almost daily barrage of otherworldly pandemonium Sleepy Hollow had to offer, that is. Her sibling insisted the guy was an old colleague and very easy on the eyes. Jenny even tried to tempt her with the opportunity to, as she so delicately put it, "knock boots with a total stranger!" When this failed to elicit much interest, her sister strove to sweeten the deal by offering to keep an eye on Crane for the rest of the evening and make sure he didn't wind up badgering some hapless telemarketer soliciting funds for charity again.

It was a generous gesture, and not one to be spurned lightly. So Abbie resolved to bite the bullet and see where the night might take her.

The 'old colleague' in question turned out to be some kind of surfer-dude version of Indiana Jones. Definitely a Hollywood cliché version of handsome, with his two-week-old stubble, windswept golden mane and hardbody frame on display from rolled-up shirtsleeves and unbuttoned collar. But the guy also looked like he just rolled out of bed and into whatever clothes were lying strewn on the floor of his man cave. And the first words out of his mouth when he slouched confidently into the chair opposite hers were, "Are you a leprechaun? Cuz I'm feelin' lucky tonight!"

Five minutes later Abbie officially ended their date when she busted his jaw. California Jones was then cuffed hand and foot to a table, there to await the police she had called in. Her fellow officers were given explicit instructions to put him in the drunk tank with all the winos and hobos. He should consider himself lucky she didn't shoot him. Meanwhile the disgruntled policewoman navigated over to the separate hotel bar, where she found herself on the perimeter of what looked like a speed dating session.

Her mood was poor. The thought of heading home early to put up with more of Ichabod's bloviating testimonials to history held no appeal. Jenny could endure it for a few hours more as punishment for this thoroughly disastrous setup. Brooding, she stared sullenly into the depths of her glass.

The sound of someone approaching the table drew her attention. Several guys had previously tried their luck, to no avail, and Abbie was already into a prepared speech when she looked up. "I'm armed, I'm a cop, and you're two seconds from–"

She never got to finish.

Standing across from her, the Headless Horseman raised a hand in greeting, as if to say, 'Hi'.

Abbie's mouth fell open, eyes growing wide. She couldn't believe this was happening. I'm not that drunk, am I? I hope so, because otherwise, I'm about to be…

At that moment the Horseman held up one hand before his nonexistent face and swiftly traced his fingers over it. He then flipped around what turned out to be a handheld device. And on its surface were spelled out the words, _-Greetings, Mademoiselle Mills.-_

"Unh…"

This was the most the disbelieving lieutenant could manage in her current state. Privately she wondered if this might not be some bizarre dream, or at least a case of mistaken identity. But there was no mistaking the horrific figure before her. He was dressed in the same Colonial-era Redcoat uniform she now privately associated with some pretty godawful events in her life. That mighty broadaxe was hooked into his belt. And, lest we fail to overstate the obvious, he was short by a _flippin' HEAD!_

This is not how I thought it would end, Abbie thought to herself.

Her impending decapitation was postponed when the Horseman once again tapped on his incongruous handheld. When he turned it around this time it read, -_If it would not be taken amiss, may I join you?-_

This time she managed to give a faint but definite nod. Taking this as acquiescence, the Horseman of Death pulled out a chair and seated himself across from her.

Keys tapped once more. -_Many thanks.-_ He then picked up the drink menu and appeared to peruse it intently.

Maybe it was relief at still being alive and in possession of an intact neck, but she finally managed to get back to her abnormal version of what passed for reality. And yes, Abbie, that really is the Headless Horseman sitting across from you. Death himself, Rider of the Pale Horse, and her avowed enemy for the past year. Sitting in a bar. Typing on a handheld.

Which begs the question…

"What the hell are you doing?"

His posture shifted so that it seemed as if he had looked up at her remark. _–I am yet unfamiliar with modern libations. Tell me, would a glass of hot spiced Madeira be readily available in this hostelry?-_

Reality was getting hazy again. She fought to hold onto her hard-won grip on recent events. "Are you seriously expecting me to _drink _with you?"

_-Is this unreasonable? I have you to thank for the precedent, after all.-_

So saying, he then produced a very familiar funnel from his coat pocket and held it up for her inspection. Abbie took only a moment to clarify the implications. She then swiftly stood up, glaring down at the ghostly executioner. "Look, I know we had that thing in the crypt, but… that was one time! And need I remind you that you and your crew have tried to destroy the world at least twice since then!"

The Horseman tapped away at the screen. He really was pretty good at that. -_While we remain at ideological odds in our professional capacities, I see no reason for us to not behave decorously towards one another when… I believe the modern colloquialism is, 'off the clock'.-_

That line of thought really might be the only thing keeping her alive. However a good deal of well-maintained anger also took this moment to flare up in her heart. "No reason?" she snapped harshly, planting both hands on the tabletop. "How about the fact that you _killed_ my _boss_ and longtime _guardian?"_

_-Can you be more specific?-_

The very fact he had to ask made her rage burn all the brighter. _"Sheriff August Corbin! _On the night we first met!"

His posture indicated he was rifling back through his memory. Then fingers flew once more. -_The fellow in the barn? That man shot me! Six times, if I recall aright.-_

"I don't see you pushin' up daisies as a result!"

_-Good Lady Mills, do kindly retake your seat. Your conduct is attracting opprobrious attention.- _He indicated around. She noticed then that some of the other diners were indeed giving her funny looks. Feeling a bit self-conscious, she sat back down, crossing her arms to glare at where his face would be were he still possessed of a skull.

The Horseman took several separate writing sessions to get his next thoughts across, which Abbie allowed him from a sort of morbid curiosity._ -Now, as to the point of contention, I doubt you can fault me for acting to defend my person when a complete stranger turns lethal force upon me. The matter was unfortunate in your regards, but lest we forget: I did spare you that night, did I not?-_

A counterpoint cropped up immediately. "And the farmer you beheaded that evening? Can you explain that one away too?"

_-I merely attempted to negotiate the purchase of one of his stable. He grew vitriolic. Negotiations broke down shortly after.-_

"Right," Abbie declared flatly. "Lemme guess. He lost his head."

_-Quite.-_

Right then a waiter approached their table. The Horseman pointed out a selection on the drink menu as well as indicating Abbie's half-finished glass, and the server bowed before slipping quietly away.

This woke her up to something she had not bothered to think about before. "Okay. Leaving off whatever bad blood we have between us, I just want to reiterate: what the _hell _are you doing here?!"

_-Ah.- _The crimson-coated cavalryman busied himself with typing. -_In addition to our more martial encounters, you no doubt recall that I remain in pursuit of the heart and affections of one Katrina Van Tassel.-_

"You mean Crane."

The axe was in his hand and at her throat before she could so much as blink. It trembled there, the edge smoking slightly, before being quickly withdrawn. -_I beg your pardon. 'Tis naught but an involuntary reflex on my part. Pay it no mind.-_

Nearly-Beheaded Abbie could only manage another, "Unh…"

While she was recovering from this close shave, the Headless Horseman continued. -_As you so succinctly pointed out, Katrina remains woefully bewitched by her slavish devotion to that odious upstart you call an ally. I attempted to cozen her away from such deleterious sentiments, only to find her intractable on that score. I have engaged expensive gifts, gestures of affection, sound reasoning, yet all are rebuffed as she remains in steadfast devotion to some idealized version of that egomaniacal popinjay! I am fast approaching my wits end. To wit, her estranged son Jeremy, whom you know better as Henry Parish, suggested that since all time-tested courtship methods of our own era had proven deficient, I might avail myself of more current forms of wooing to hopefully bear more pleasing fruit once I plead my case to Katrina again. To that end, I am engaged in research on the subject.-_

It was only then did Abbie notice something that had completely escaped her attention before. On the Horseman's left breast there was a small white badge. And written on it in large letters…

'HELLO. My name is ABRAHAM.'

She then looked slowly around the room at all the other men and women engaged in animated attempts at insightful conversation before finally turning back to the creature which in life had been Abraham von Brunt.

"You're _speed dating?"_

_-I believe that is the phrase, yes.-_

Abbie couldn't help it. She was gawking at him, mouth slack and disbelieving eyes wide. Another salient question came up then. "And _why _have they not all run screaming at the sight of you?"

_-Ah. As to that…-_

At this point Abraham reached across the way to tap the shoulder of a woman chatting at a table across from them. She turned, saw the headless _thing, _and was just drawing breath in prelude to what her expression clearly showed would be a bloodcurdling screech, when…

_FWIP!_

The Horseman held up a fanned-out selection of hundred-dollar bills to her.

"Ooo!" The woman accepted this offering eagerly and looked back at him with a smile. "Thank you, headless stranger!"

He waved a hand, as if to say 'No problem', then turned back to Mills, spreading his arms wide like, 'Ta-dah!'

The look she offered him held the deepest depths of disdain. "I don't know what disgusts me more: you, or humanity in general."

His shoulders shook. He was _laughing!_ Abbie glared sourly at her undead foe. "Where did you get that much money from, anyway? They got ATMs in hell?"

_-Atems? You have me at a loss. No, in point of fact, prior to my demise and resurrection, I was a recognized barrister under the Crown and duly appointed magistrate in the Colonies. Considering my outspoken involvement in our uprisings, I had little doubt should the revolution fail, my holdings here and abroad would fall under legal assault. So I made certain to draft a highly detailed will and testimonial which included ironclad stipulations regarding my sudden disappearance, whether it be as a result of death, exile or being forced to flee the Colonies. In short, mortal extirpation in no way attainted my legally attested wishes. For the last two centuries, the Von Brunt family's English solicitors have capably managed my holdings and investments. Specific instructions were left as to how I might reclaim my rightful belongings upon reemergence into society, and the passage of years has done nothing to dilute these lawful forms. Though I do admit, at the time I never expected my return to involve being risen from the grave.- _

"You gotta be kidding me," Abigail stated bluntly. "Crane came out of the ground with just the shirt on his back and worms in his long johns, and you're King _Tut?!" _

_-I beg your pardon?-_

"Nothing, just… reflecting on how there's no upside to knowing Crane." The waiter brought their drinks then, and Abraham paid him with another C-note. Abbie couldn't help but be just a touch rankled at this display of wealth. She was an upstanding citizen, officer of the law and a virtual Ghostbuster to boot, but she certainly wasn't rolling in dough! The unfairness of it all prompted her next question. "Not that I really care, but how much are you worth, anyway?"

Von Brunt did some quick calculations on his device. He turned the screen around so she could see the result. Abbie leaned in to read what was written there.

She then gave him a very flat look.

"Oh, _hell, _no, that is not a real number! You just made that up!"

When he merely shrugged, she flopped gracelessly back in her seat with a disgusted noise. Abbie hadn't thought this night could get any worse, but clearly she had been mistaken in that regard. The young woman picked up her mixed drink and offered him a very sour salute with it. "Well, here's to your rich dead ass."

The Horseman hefted his own glass and they clinked them together. As Abbie sipped her rum and coke, she watched him deftly insert the funnel she had given him into his throat and pour the contents of the glass down. It made her squirm uncomfortably, and this brought her back to their situation. "Look, I appreciate you not murdering me and all, but if we're not going to fight, maybe one of us should just call it a night, okay?" She stood up in preparation to leave. "Thanks for the drink."

The funnel disappeared back into his coat. -_Surely you cannot find my company any more abhorrent than what awaits you at home?-_

It was rather sad how neatly he had hit the nail on the head. Yet still her pride caused Abbie to reach for some excuse. "Not like there's a whole lot the two of us could shoot the breeze over anyway."

-_Unless you count our relationship vis-à-vis Ichabod and Katrina.- _

She gave a snort. "Are you seriously suggesting we spend the rest of the evening complaining about our respective Cranes?"

* * *

Abbie Mills slammed back another Chocolate Mudslide before stacking the glass atop its fellows. "The man is technologically _illiterate!" _she snapped, indicating the waiter to bring her a refill. "I'm serious, Crane cannot even figure out how to operate a _toaster, _for heaven's sake! Whenever the bread pops up, he runs screaming from the room!"

_-I can trump that. Katrina disdains the use of your modern plumbing 'toilet' device. She alludes to it as 'the Leviathan' and will not go near it for fear that it shall suck her down into some watery abyss.-_

"That's nothing." While the Horseman was occupied with selecting an entrée, she covertly stole his plate of cheese fries and began loading them up with fixings. "Did you know Crane is convinced the traffic lights are some kind of secret Masonic code being sent to him? He once stood in the middle of an intersection at rush hour with people screaming at him while he tried to puzzle out their 'flashing mysteries'!"

_-Katrina is obsessed with learning if the electric light in the icebox stays on once the door is shut. She even attempted to shrink herself to homunculus proportions and insisted I place her inside and close the box behind her. When I refused, she became most wroth and blew the ceiling off. Are those my fries?-_

"Oops!" Abbie popped her catch into her mouth with an innocent smile. "Mmm! So good." She pouted when he retrieved his appetizer and began slipping them into his exposed esophagus one by one. In the time it took to chew and swallow she had remembered something else. "Well, answer me this: have you ever had to help someone who managed to get their hair tangled in an electric mixing bowl?"

_-As a matter of fact…-_

* * *

_-…vile as that sounds, you cannot ken true ennui until you have had to listen to Katrina recite one of her epic poems dedicated to the illustrious Ichabod Crane.-_

"Oh, please tell me you're joking!" Abbie laughed and refilled her wine glass, doing the same for Abraham as well. Half-eaten plates of Beef Bolognese and Oysters Rockefeller took up space at their elbows.

He had a glug of the vintage before continuing. -_S'truth, by my troth. Fortunately there are only so many words in the English language that rhyme with 'Ichabod'. However, there remain a distressing multitude which can be paired with 'Crane', and I have noticed most possess a decidedly negative attribute to them.-_

"Really?" she teased. "Sure you're not just a teensy bit biased in that regard?"

_-Pain. Strain. Distrain. Disdain. Profane. Slain.-_

"Wait, wait, hold on, there are nice words too! Like, uhhh…" She thought for a second. "Oh! Train! And then there's… cane, retain…"

_-Vain. Insane. Stain. Sprain. Plain. Remains. -_

"I was just about to say 'remain', it was on the tip of my tongue! Okay, sustain, curtain, pertain, rain… grain… brain… hold on, lemme think…"

_-Feign. Drain. Wane. Arcane.-_

"You'd be a terror at Scrabble, you know that? Let's see, how about… refrain! And lain, contain… plain… ummm…"

_-Already laid claim to 'plain'. Abstain. Mundane. Swain.-_

"Hold on, hold on, what the heck is a 'swain'?"

_-An amorous young man, usually from the rustic countryside.-_

Mills read out his response, then looked at Abe with one eyebrow raised. "That doesn't sound so bad."

_-Would you wish your sister to marry one?-_

"Hell n–" She paused. "Oh… o-o-o-o-h."

_-Agreed. Deign. Bane…-_

* * *

Abbie Mills was laughing so hard there were tears leaking from her eyes, leaning her head on one hand and elbow on the table. "I s… s… SWEAR it! Got himself a big ol' magic SWORD… and he thinks he's King ARTHUR reborn!"

-_And I surmise Ichabod expects himself to possess immediate prowess with a broadsword despite never having handled such an antiquated weapon in his entire life. If this were a play, that would be a rather glaring oversight on the part of the writers.-_

"I just… wanna…" She clumsily picked up a half-empty wine bottle from the table, examining the reflection in its dark green side. Her face fell. "… shoot him."

She pitched the bottle, letting it shatter against a wall. Most of the other diners had long since departed. Anxious waiters edged nervously towards their table, eyes flickering between the prominently displayed axe and a pistol visible in its holster on her hip.

_FWIP!_

The waiters backed away all smiles, genuflecting and clutching several thousand dollars. The two continued their conversation without interruption.

"Like through the brain, y'know?" she slurred. "Just POW! Right between the eyes! Double tap."

_-Ironically, those were my last thoughts prior to departing this mortal coil.-_

Cheek still smushed against one hand, Abbie's eyes revolved to take in the Horseman. "Why couldn't I have gotten YOU as my partner from the past? You're rich! You don't talk too much… hell, you don't talk at all! And you got your own set o' wheels. Or hooves. Whatever!"

_-I assure you, I do have my flaws.-_

"Yeah. I know. You're an evil headless bastard. But ya wanna know somethin'?" She smiled, glassy eyes sparkling and bright. "Yer a-l-l-l-l RIGHT!" One finger extended to tap his nametag. "Abe-raham!"

_-I am forced to concur regarding you, Mademoiselle Abigail.-_

Abbie giggled and hid her face in her hands like a child. "Frenchie!"

She then pulled her pistol and fired a shot into the air. "YO, GARÇON!" the happy drunk hollered. "BRING US THE GOOD STUFF!"

A well-placed _FWIP _convinced the hotel staff not to call the police.

* * *

"/I ke-e-e-p… goin' to the giver to play/ Cuz I ne-e-e-d… somethin' that can wasp all the Crane... pain/"

Up onstage, Abbie Mills swayed from side to side clutching the microphone as she attempted to focus on the words rolling across the teleprompter.

"/Bright light libbin… _livin'_ in the shape/ Your cold heart makes my… spirit… shave…? The heck does that mean…?"

Sitting at the piano, Abraham von Brunt acted as her accompaniment along with the dreadful karaoke machine. The headless warrior silently gave thanks for a classical education. Several night-owls almost as inebriated as Miss Mills were enthusiastically applauding her performance, regardless of the occasional groping for words. One bold fellow tried to clamber up there with her, and the Horseman was just preparing to reach for his broadaxe when Abbie promptly kicked her drunken admirer in the face, sending him pitching backwards without missing a beat. Satisfied, Abe concentrated on tickling the ivories once more.

_Twenty minutes later…_

"/Who made you king of ANY DAMN THING, YOU RAT'S NEST-HAIRED MOTHER-FU-/"

There came a crash as Abbie Mills swung the microphone stand overhead directly onto the karaoke machine, splitting the poor device open in a shower of sparks. The audience howled with joy while waving their lighters.

Observing her handiwork with a sort of curious confusion, the inebriated officer suddenly rolled up her eyes and pitched backward. Immediately Abraham dropped his drumsticks and leapt to catch her before she could hit the floor, arms encircling under hers as she slumped against his chest. He confirmed she was passed out and nothing more. Then Hell's champion snapped his fingers abruptly, and a small army of hotel staff sprang to do his bidding.

_-Check, please.-_

* * *

Ichabod Crane came to lying face down on the floor. He rose with a groan, nursing a rather painful knot on the back of his head. What happened? He had been extemporizing to Miss Jennifer Mills on the proper method to treat a headache by rubbing a mixture of cow dung and molasses on her temples, when suddenly she shouted, "Crane, look behind you!"

He remembered turning around, and then… nothing.

The extant Revolutionary clambered upright and looked all about. Jenny did not seem to be in attendance. Had some malign entity knocked him unconscious and spirited her off? His eye then alighted on a folded piece of paper on the table which had not been there before. Shambling over to it, Ichabod noticed it was addressed to Abigail. Of course, time might be of the essence, so he swiftly unfurled the missive and began to examine its contents.

_Dear Abbie: I'm sorry, but if I stayed one second longer I was gonna go Lara Croft and empty my twin pistols into your boyfriend's brain. The man does not know when to SHUT UP! I hope you had a lousy time on your date, because otherwise you owe me for this big time! So just call me in the morning and–_

His perusal was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Someone was requesting access to Crane Manor! He sprang across the room and drew the latch. "Leftenant, is that–?"

The door was kicked in, sending Crane sprawling back onto the floor. A cold wind blew into the room, sending dried leaves rustling and skittering through the air. Looking up, Ichabod was horrified to find the Headless Horseman framed in the doorway, holding none other than Abigail Mills in his infernal arms.

Gaping up at this mind-boggling sight, he scuttled backwards, then scrambled to his feet and bolted from the room.

"I got to pet the horsey," Abbie murmured sleepily as the Horseman strode into the house. "He went PPPPTH!" She blew out her breath through her lips, then appeared to lapse into drunken slumber once more.

Abraham studied their quarters and at last found a suitable location. Crossing into the living area he moved to a plush couch and gently deposited Abbie on it. While she snuggled her head against a pillow, he had already located a quilt and proceeded to drape it over her sleeping form. The young woman gave a contented sigh. He deposited her jacket on the back of the couch before standing up.

"HAH!"

The Horseman turned just as Ichabod Crane dashed back into the room bearing a massive sword in both hands. His archenemy came to a halt a few paces away and brandished the obviously cumbersome implement over one shoulder.

"Now, villain! With this Magic Sword, which I have dubbed Excalibur, the wielding of which thereby proclaims me to be the rightful King of England, I shall smite you, thus ending your wicked encroachment on the lands of men, for as declared unto me by Betsy Ross herself–!"

Unconcerned, Abraham pulled out his phone and began writing on it. He then turned the screen so that Ichabod could see.

_-Ichabod, would you care to observe some sleight-of-hand?-_

Crane paused in mid-tirade, blinking owlishly at the small text. "Eh?" He nearly keeled over from the weight of his wizardly weapon, arms trembling to keep it aloft.

Taking this for encouragement, the Horseman drew a handkerchief from one pocket. He then held his empty hand up between them and draped the hank of cloth over it, obscuring it from sight completely.

After a few seconds, Abraham pulled off the kerchief with a flourish, to reveal a tightly clenched fist.

Ichabod peered closer, wrinkling his nose in bewilderment. "I spy no feat of legerdemain in evi–"

The Horseman's massive fist cannoned forward and smashed into Crane's nose, sending him stumbling over a coffee table to sprawl unconscious on the ground. The broadsword arced up into the air to be caught by Abraham one-handed.

_Imbecile_, he thought. Behind him Abbie stirred slightly, but did not appear to have woken from their little struggle. The Headless Horseman assured himself of this before turning back to Crane. He considered shoving the weapon up the man's bunghole, but finally decided to simply let matters end there. To sate himself, however, he located a post in the house's support and proceeded to push the enchanted sword through it as far as his hell-born strength would allow. When he was done, the blade had been plunged into the beam up to the hilt.

_Good luck pulling that free, you boil on the arse of Man._

With that, the Horseman of Death strode out of the house, locking the door behind him.

* * *

The early morning sun was peeking through the windows. Nestled on the couch, Abigail Mills slept the sleep of the just. Crane still lay passed out a few feet away.

Without warning, the tranquil environment erupted to the cannonball strains of Tchaikovsky's '1812 Overture'.

Abbie bolted up from the couch, looking frantically all around. The music was like a jackhammer being driven into her throbbing temples. Clutching her head, she finally realized the source of this earsplitting cacophony was coming from her coat! After searching desperately through the pockets, Abbie located the cause: her own cellphone.

Pressing a button, all clamor quieted. The hungover lieutenant heaved a grateful sigh and flopped back onto the couch. At this point she realized that this had occurred as a result of receiving a text message. Squinting through the lingering remnants of her migraine, she finally puzzled out the script.

_Good Lady Mills,_

_I trust this message finds you well. I took the liberty of switching your ringtone to something more epic, the better to rouse you come dawn. Crane can recommend a good headache remedy, of that I am certain._

_Fondest regards,_

_Abraham von Brunt _

Abbie stared miserably at this display.

"Evil… headless… bastard…" she muttered, and collapsed on the sofa.

Ichabod sat up swiftly. "HO, KNAVE, WHEREFORE ART–?"

A cellphone soared through the air and beaned him in the temple, prompting Crane to shudder and pass out once more.

_**FIN.**_


	3. Chapter 3

"To recap:

I, Abigail Mills, am currently trapped over 200 years in the past, thanks to Ichabod Crane's witch wife going batshit crazy after we put down her psychotic son and deciding she was going to alter history. I am not going to take this opportunity to question why, if the possibility for time travel was always on the table, nobody ever used it before to, say, give the Titanic a heads-up on that iceberg, or even just buy a few of Hitler's paintings so he didn't feel the need to throw his hat into the political ring. And yes, maybe I did always half-suspect it would come down to this eventually. Crane got trapped in a time period he can barely comprehend much less survive in, and now the same thing has happened to me. So whoever's writing the story of my life, I get it: irony. Big ol' heaping plate of irony slathered in foreshadowing and served up with a side of fried green 'How-do-you-like-dem-apples'?

If you are reading this 200+ years in the future, please deliver it to Abigail Mills, Sleepy Hollow (there's only one), USA, Year 2014 A.D. at the latest. Failing that, do me a solid and just put Ichabod Crane back in the ground.

Sincerely,

Abigail (Abbie) Mills"

Having finished what might have to suffice for her last will and testament, Abbie folded the parchment carefully, slipped it into the pages of a thick book, and proceeded to insert it into the space left by prying a brick out of a wall. The old Colonial-era library she now found herself in would be bulldozed when she was only fifteen. There had been a big public outcry at the time, along with a letter-writing campaign and donations being asked to preserve the historical site. Nonetheless the end result was another coffee store popping up. She hoped that during the demolition, someone would come across her time-spanning message and see it got into the right hands.

Standing up and dusting off her pants, Abbie then proceeded to make her way out of the library. This really had been a beautiful old building. She remembered it being quiet and peaceful as a child. Unfortunately nobody remembered to have it put on the list of Historically Protected sites. You don't really appreciate what you have 'til it's gone, she reflected.

Case in point: stranded in the American Revolutionary War, she was the only person capable of stopping Katrina Crane from altering history by killing Ichabod. Now granted, her reality up until this point hadn't been what one might call 'sedate' or even 'enviable'. But at the very least she knew what year it was whenever she got out of bed. Now even that had been taken away from her. Hence this little insurance policy. That last bit regarding Ichabod was more of a pipedream. If she didn't manage to save his life in this time period, there might not be a future where she even existed. If she did preserve the past but was forced to live out her days here, then at least some measure of cosmic justice might still befall Crane.

Abbie entered the reception area, ignoring the stares she got from one or two tricorn-hatted book lovers. Her jeans, jacket and blouse had already earned her enough funny looks upon arrival. Fortunately she had managed to evade arrest or being sold into slavery. After finally managing to coax someone into telling her the year, the time-cop had been relieved to learn she found herself in the era prior to Ichabod's first encounter with the Headless Horseman. This whole time travel business proved to be particularly nerve-wracking. She had been very careful not to trample any butterflies since arriving here, or so much as swat a fly. Even food was avoided for fear that it might deprive someone important of sustenance that could save their life. That way led to rampaging androids and Nixon's second term as president-for-life.

For all Abbie knew, Katrina had gone back even further than herself and already killed Ichabod sometime in the past. Regardless, she needed to find Crane's whereabouts and, if possible, warn him about the danger he was in. The question was, how?

"Adams. John Adams."

Halfway out the door, Abigail Mills paused.

"Very good, Mr. Adams," a woman's voice stated behind her. "These shall be due back in a fortnight's time. Please enjoy your reading material."

"Thank you, I shall."

Upon stepping out into the sunshine with several books tucked under his arm, the gentleman was about to don his hat when he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he regarded the dark-skinned young woman behind him. "Yes?"

"John Adams?" she asked, deep black eyes studying his face intently. "The lawyer? Married to Abigail?"

"I am…" What an odd accent. He took note then of her exotic appearance in terms of clothing. Was this another of his wife's unusual acquaintances like that Van Tassel woman?

While puzzling over this perplexing character, the lady then added, "The same man who successfully defended those British soldiers accused of firing on civilians in Boston?"

This was proving very peculiar. "Yes. Are you in need of legal representation, young lady?"

To his amazement, her face broke into the most blindingly radiant smile that had ever been directed at him. She then lifted her eyes to the sky and declared, "Thank you, HBO!" The mad-eyed foreigner placed herself squarely in his path, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Adams, I'm sorry to just accost you on the street like this, but it's a matter of life and death! I have reason to believe Ichabod Crane has been targeted by an assassin!"

Abbie Mills hesitated upon noticing the blank incomprehension on the future president's face. It didn't look like he had a clue who she was talking about. Don't tell me… could Katrina have already done the deed prior to this? "He's married to Katrina C… Van Tassel, your wife's friend!" she amended desperately.

To her immense relief, a look of very personal anxiety crept into the Founding Father's features. _Yes!_ She exulted. He does know that name!

Moments later her hopes were deflated slightly. "Forgive me," Adams spoke, "but as a point of personal preference, I make sure to be… not well acquainted with Miss Van Tassel or her affairs."

The disdain in his voice made her want to hug him. Abbie resolutely fought this unworthy impulse down. "Believe me, sir, I know exactly where you're coming from!"

"At the risk of sounding rude, good lady… pray tell, who are you?"

The frantic soul thought quickly. Okay, this is too good an opportunity to pass up, I can't let it slip away! "Call me… Jennifer." A flash of inspiration hit her then. What did Crane say about secret codes between the Revolutionaries? She had tuned out a lot of his bullshit throughout their relationship, and now that seemed to have returned to bite her in the ass. But if I can remember even one of those inane Masonic greetings which held double meanings…!

Her stomach rumbled. And just like that, she had it.

"Mr. Adams," she declared, schooling her face into a perfectly serious cast, "I wonder if you know that an erudite scholar butters his bread from top to bottom?"

She watched him potentially weigh her sanity.

Then Adams closed his eyes and gave a world-weary groan. "Oh, Good Lord," he muttered darkly. "Not another of Washington's inane Masonic greetings!"

"Hey, I was just thinking the same–!" She shook her head. "Never mind. Mr. Adams, I need to speak to General Washington right away! It's urgent!"

* * *

Two soldiers armed with sabers and flintlock rifles stood at post outside a room on the inn's second floor. John Adams nodded to them both and they stood aside for him. Abbie received only curious stares from the silent sentries. A moment later she found herself ushered into the room.

Upon their entrance, several faces illuminated by orange candlelight looked up from a map spread out on a stout table. Despite having steeled herself for this, Abbie found she had been struck speechless. That man there, in the blue military officer's coat… that was General George Washington himself! Her country's very first president, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army and hero of the Revolutionary War! He looked younger than the paintings she had seen, but the resemblance was undeniable. And there across from him… Thomas Jefferson! President #3 and author of the Declaration of Independence! Her eyes darted to one side, where she swiftly pinpointed another face owing to its spot on the $10 bill. Alexander Hamilton! He… got shot by Aaron Burr! Good for him! And there, sitting in the chair observing them over his half-moon spectacles, was none other than Benjamin Franklin, Revolutionary ambassador, statesman, inventor, and man who electrocuted himself in the name of science!

She couldn't help herself. Abbie let out a yelp of laughter, clapping both hands to her mouth and staring with great star-struck eyes at these living legends. The police lieutenant actually squealed like a fan-girl meeting their favorite actor.

For their part, the group of historical figures seemed to be at a loss as to what her presence might portend. John Adams moved to consult with his colleagues, conferring in low voices. When they had finished the party turned as one to regard her. It was George Washington who spoke first.

"I am not familiar with either your face or name, yet you know our most intimate customs. Pray speak, good lady Jennifer, and tell us what is this matter of such vital importance."

It took every drop of self-restraint she had not to check to see if he had wooden teeth. Instead Abigail Mills forced herself to focus on his eyes. Taking a deep breath, she managed to subsume the hysteria from being allowed to address such a prestigious conclave. Time was of the essence. She had to do this right!

"General Washington… I'm here because one of your most valued men's life might be in danger as we speak!"

"To whom are you referring?" Hamilton asked.

"Ichabod Crane!"

For a time they all just stared at her. Then Benjamin Franklin stirred in his seat.

"Who?"

Abbie looked from one face to another in mild astonishment. What the…? Am I seeing this right? It doesn't look like any of them know who I'm talking about!

She tried again. "He's… a captain in your army! And a spy! He infiltrated the Redcoats, and helped you stage the Boston Tea Party!"

Washington just looked even more puzzled. Meanwhile, Adams heaved a sigh and shook his head despondently. "I thought as much," he declared with weary remorse. "Just another case of addled wits. These trying times truly have afflicted those most vulnerable."

She couldn't believe it. Had the flow of time really been altered this much that they didn't even remember him? "Mr. Franklin!" she tried again desperately. "You must know who I mean! Crane's your apprentice, he studied under you for several years! He used to be a professor at Oxford University!"

The portly genius took off his glasses to regard her sadly. "I am sorry, but I do not have the slightest notion to whom you might be referring."

Stunned, the heroic young woman gaped at them in horror. Am I too late? Did I fail to prevent the worst from happening? All that we went through, me and Crane… it's all gone! Never happened! History's changed, and without him, that means everything I know is wrong.

She felt tears coming to her eyes. And right at that moment, there came a knock at the door.

"Pots in need of scouring, gentlemen?"

Upon hearing this, Abigail Mills went stiff.

Not noticing her reaction, General Washington raised his voice slightly. "No, thank you, Icky. We're all good here."

No… it couldn't be…

"Very well. I shall return in due course to complete my assignment!"

Sunnuvabitch! It is! That's…!

Whipping around, Abbie flung open the door.

"CRANE?!"

Standing out in the hall, a dirty towel over one shoulder and a large chamber pot in both hands, Ichabod Crane regarded her peculiarly. "Indeed I am! To what do I owe this abrupt speaking of my God-given title?"

It was hard to get air into her lungs. The most sound she could produce was a thin wheezing rasp. Behind her, however, Washington seemed to have perked up.

"Wait… Ichabod Cr…" A look of sheer amazement caused his eyes to light up with merriment. "You mean _ICKY?!"_

And with that, every man in the room broke into gales of laughter.

"ICKY?!" Hamilton howled. "The _PISS BOY?!"_

"_MY_ apprentice?!" Benjamin Franklin wheezed, tears streaming down his face and plump belly shaking with guffaws. "Oh, of all the absurd…!" He couldn't even finish his sentence, and collapsed with one arm on the table, roaring without restraint.

At this Ichabod dashed past the paralyzed Abbie into the room. Placing both hands on his hips he gazed stricken at the guffawing scientist. "I am so your apprentice! The one man worthy enough to entrust with all your arcane knowledge, to tease out the inscrutable mysteries which only the most learned could possibly hope to untangle! Your secrets are mine to share!"

This impassioned outburst seemed to cool Franklin's hilarity greatly. "Oh, Icky, by all that is holy, please desist!" he snapped. "You are no more my apprentice than you are my son! And the only secrets of mine which you might be privy to are the contents of my _privy!"_ A very menacing glower then stole over his fatherly features. "Icky, if you've been sneaking peaks at my work journals again, I'll…!"

"I am a Son of Liberty!" Ichabod declared, tossing back his hair and lifting one foot to place it upon a nearby stool, empty bowl dangling from the hand on his hip. "A patriot, unwilling to be shackled by the depredations of a tyrant king, who willingly cast in my lot with you valiant revolutionaries for the sake of all mankind! My true identity is known only to a select few hand-picked and very important men! As such I do hereby declare that upon this day…!"

"I believe I see the issue here," Thomas Jefferson stated as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes while Crane continued to thunder. "Gentlemen, it seems this lovely yet guileless maiden has fallen victim to another of Icky's boastful tavern escapades."

His announcement brought a collective groan from the learned men.

"Now see here, Piss Boy!" Hamilton crossed his arms and glared with reproach at the wild-eyed madman off on one of his rants. "You've been warned not to intrude on our meetings, and heaven knows many is the poor ignorant serving wench I have had to deal with after you've cozened them into bed with your self-aggrandizing prevarications! But this scurrilous behavior stops now, do you hear?!"

General Washington slammed one fist on the oaken table. His face had gone dark with wrath. "Icky, I do declare, if you pull one more of these reprehensible stunts, I shall allow some of those loathsome Hessian mercenaries in the stockade to rape you so hard up the arse that you _shit BABIES!"_

"I do apologize for this, my child." John Adams drew up to Abbie's side, who still hadn't moved from her previous position. "He is a grievously self-absorbed soul and we deeply regret your having fallen victim to his delusions. We had half-hoped a stern reprimand might serve to temper such unseemly behavior, but it seems our hopes were in vain."

He placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. At this contact Abbie looked at him. More humiliating than any jeering laughter was the heartfelt pity she now saw clearly in his eyes. Turning her head, she noticed they were all giving her the exact same look. This expression of sympathy hurt worse than anything in her life. She had gotten it from social workers, school teachers and hospital staff throughout her childhood and beyond, and you would have thought she had grown used to it by now. But this time… this time it was the Founding Fathers themselves, gazing at her with the most piteous of expressions, and she could practically hear them all thinking, _'Poor silly little girl, I feel so sorry for her. So very, very sorry.'_

All those hours, days, _months _of listening to Ichabod Crane disgorge _endlessly_ about what the history books got wrong, and how he was present for all the most pivotal of events, and how he participated in the founding of her country, and all the uncountable times he boasted about his famous friends, it was all… _all…!_

"… greatest age will soon be upon us! In fact, my dear friend and fellow patriot Thomas Paine confided in me that–!"

"YOU NAME-DROPPING MUDDAFUKAH!"

She grabbed Crane's shoulder and spun him around, introducing a cannonball of a right cross to his face at the same time. He collapsed like a row of Dominos, and Abbie fell upon him with all the weight of her pent-up aggression.

"MUDDAFUKAH! MUDDAFUKAH MUDDAFUKAH! MUDDA_FUKAH!"_

The chamber pot had fallen to the floor. Grabbing firm hold of his long curly locks, Abbie proceeded to beat Ichabod's head against the downturned metal implement like a drum, to a steady rhythm of BONK! BONK! BONK!

Observing this, the assembled party could only stare in outright stupefaction. The door burst open at this point and the two guards flew in, only to draw up short at what they saw.

"Good heavens!" Alexander Hamilton whispered, astounded. "What… what is she doing?!"

Washington rubbed his chin in a perplexed manner. "She appears to be… bludgeoning the tar out of him." He seemed to be about to take a step forward to end this conflict, then hesitated, glancing helplessly around at his countrymen. "I… I confess I have no idea what to do in such a situation, gentlemen! Nothing in my background, upbringing or learning has prepared me to handle something so… beyond the pale!"

John Adams clutched his library books while staring in shock at this bewildering scene. "But we must do something! The poor dear might injure herself!"

"One moment, good sirs."

They all turned to Benjamin Franklin, who remained seated with one hand raised to get their attention. His eyes stayed glued on the ensuing beat-down, and a rather unwholesome smile now etched itself onto his face.

"In all honesty I am not alien to such a predicament. In point of fact, during one of my diplomatic missions to France, I was invited to attend a midnight performance of similar design. I found it to be most…" His eyes glittered in the faint candlelight. "… stimulating!" Clearing his throat, he then glanced around at his shocked colleagues. "If I may be so bold, and if it does not prove adverse to your sensibilities, I propose that we order up some refreshments and proceed to… enjoy the show!"

"MUDDAFUKAH!"

They all turned in time to see Abbie hoist Ichabod up by the lapels of his coat and headbutt him in the face, to the collective amazed gasps of the spectators.

Observing the pair of guards with their shocked yet undoubtedly impressed reactions, Washington came to a decision.

"Would you chaps run down to the tap room and bring up some tankards of ale?"

* * *

CRACK!

"She is a tiny little thing, but her physical fortitude is quite remarkable," Benjamin Franklin observed, taking a sip from his pewter tankard.

WHAM!

"Indeed," Adams asserted. "To thrash a grown man of superior height and weight is no small feat. Even if it is just Icky." He turned to one of the two guards also enjoying this spectacle. "Can one of you ring to get me a refill? My cup's run dry."

BONK! BONK! BONK!

Hamilton snorted, ale spilling out of his nose. "I say, she's using the chamber pot again! I love when she does that!" He wiped a hand across his chin cheerfully.

CRUNCH!

"I'm amazed he can still retain consciousness with the shellacking she's bestowing upon him." Hand resting on his cheek, George Washington shook his head in profound admiration. "The fairer sex never ceases to astound me. Perhaps we should give serious consideration to offering them more rights than custom might normally dictate in our new nation?"

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-WHAM!

"Goodness, right across the throat as though he ran into a… a clothesline!" Licking his lips, Thomas Jefferson squirmed in his seat before rounding eagerly on his compatriots. "Would any of you gentlemen object if I were to divest myself of my trousers?"

"Keep it in your breeches, Jefferson." Adams leveled a scornful look at his pretentious rival. "We don't want this sublime moment sullied with your vulgar moral turpitude."

THOCK!

"Watch your tone, Adams! While it is only natural that George lead our new nation after the closure of this war, I have no doubt whatsoever that upon the conclusion of his term I shall be elected president without fail, and then you shall have to treat me with the respect due one of my rank!"

"We shall see about that, Thomas!" he retorted tartly.

GURGLE!

His head came around. "Oh dear, she's choking him again!" Adams swiftly rose upright. "Come now, chaps, we all agreed, if she does that one more time we must call it quits! For decency's sake!"

"One more moment, John!" Alexander forestalled him with a hand on his sleeve. "I love the way his eyes bug out when she does that!"

"No, John is right, sirs." George Washington put down his drink and stood up. "This has been a merry undertaking, but she really is going to kill him if we do not intervene. Come on, now, we've already observed that the young lady has gone to great pains not to injure any of us for some reason. Just interpose yourselves between them like we did before, and I am certain we can bring this to a close."

With a few disappointed exclamations they all proceeded to do so. Moments later the still furious Abbie was hopping anxiously from one foot to another trying to dart around Hamilton and Franklin, who stood with arms outspread to prevent her from reaching the pitiable mess on the floor. While still transported by rage, she retained enough self-control to remember these men must not be harmed under any circumstances. While unaware of her reasons, the Colonial gentlemen seized upon this principle to coax her gently from the room and into the care of two unarmed guards who escorted her off the premises.

While a medic was being summoned, George Washington gazed upon the mangled gasping wreck of Ichabod Crane. "You know," he observed casually, "it seems Icky can take quite a beating. Perhaps we should consider making him a spy after all? Knowing him, he'll probably announce himself to the Redcoats, and while they're preoccupied interrogating him, our real agents can act with greater impunity. Shall we vote? What say you all?"

They all raised their hands. "Aye!"

On the floor, Ichabod Crane managed to smile despite several teeth leaking out of his mouth.

* * *

Slumped on a cot in the local jail, Abbie Mills reflected on how things could be worse. While the Founding Fathers still considered her to be a threat to the community, they were at least considerate enough of her circumstances to arrange for a private confinement where she was not lumped in with the assorted riffraff that one could find in a pre-19th century prison during wartime. The room outside the pig-iron bars of her cell was swept clean and well-lit, and the straw on the floor had been changed at their insistence. Food and drink of good quality by this era's standards had been provided for her, though she did note that they would not allow her a chamber pot for fear of what she might do with it. Guess I can't really blame them. At least this way I don't have to contend with the smell.

As the first rays of the morning sun crept through the windows of her prison, there came a jangling of keys at the door. "Magistrate in attendance!" one of the guards announced for her benefit.

The portal swung open, and a somewhat tired-looking young man came in, removing his hat and bowing to Abbie. Her guards whispered something in low voices to him, the word 'witch' being uncomfortably clear, and moments later she found herself alone with the official, separated by bars. The judge rubbed his eyes sleepily before setting an inkpot with quill on a nearby table and consulting a sheaf of papers under one arm. "I am given to understand you answer to the name of Jennifer."

Slumped with one leg crooked up on her cot, the despondent policewoman barely glanced at him before responding. "No, I'm Mary Poppins. Chim chim che-ree."

He actually noted this down with his pen before continuing. "If you be a freedwoman, then the matter will be settled by a special court. If you are a runaway slave, I must warn you that the law still demands you be relinquished back into the care of your duly appointed owner. However John Adams has offered to pay for your manumission should you still live in bondage, citing a 'heroic act' you performed in service to the war effort." He regarded her curiously. "If I may be so bold, what act might he be referring to?"

The memory made her smile, and she leaned her head back against the wall while closing her eyes. "I kicked the derriere of a very deserving English asshole."

The magistrate gazed at her in some confusion at the language, but he seemed to grasp the general idea. He gave a weary sigh and began shuffling through his papers. "Your sanity notwithstanding, would that we all might have such an opportunity in life, mademoiselle."

Unseen by him, Abbie's head perked up at this. Opening her eyes, she regarded the man directly for the first time while he busied himself with legal matters. Could it be…? After a bit she finally worked up the courage to ask, "Excuse me, but… can you do something for me?"

"Eh?" He looked up at her.

She persisted in the face of his obvious suspicion. "Would you mind raising your arm, like you're holding a sword or…" she swallowed in a throat gone dry with doubt, "… an axe?"

The magistrate appeared doubly perplexed now. However after a moment he did as she asked. "Like so?"

"Hold that pose, please." Abbie then held up a hand and began slowly bringing it down until it cut off her view of his dubious face.

After a moment she sprang upright with a gasp.

"_Holy hell! _You're Abraham von _BRUNT!"_

He regarded her in frank astonishment now. "Am I… familiar with your household, good lady?"

"I don't believe this!" Abbie gabbled while pacing the cell, unable to tear her eyes away from a person whose face she had only seen through a jar of preservative fluid before now. "I simply cannot believe it! Abe, you're… a _hunk!"_

"I beg your pardon? A hunk of what?"

The reality of her situation hit home like a ton of bricks, and Abbie sprang to grip the bars of her cell. "Abe, by all that's holy, you have to let me out! It's not too late to save you! You're in terrible danger!"

At this point the door had opened and both guards were peering suspiciously inside, alert to any attempt by the madwoman to break free. For his part Abraham stood with lips parted and brow furrowed while trying to puzzle out what might be happening.

"Listen to me, Abe, please! We have to stop Katrina before it's too late!"

Suddenly his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How is it you know Katrina? What is your aim, woman?"

"I'm trying to save your life!" Abbie desperately pleaded. My God, he's human! He hasn't been turned yet! There might still be a chance to keep him from becoming the Horseman! Temporal consequences be damned, that boy is too hot to go to Hell!

Recalling the night they spent drinking together, she quickly seized upon a bit of information that might be to her benefit. "Abraham, listen. You don't remember me, but I know you! When you were in college in England, you wrote a manifesto challenging the divine authority of kings! But you were worried publishing it might hurt your family, so you submitted it anonymously to a foreign periodical!"

"What?!" He looked taken aback. A moment later Abraham appeared to recover himself, face assuming the mask of a judge. "Many passionate youths have published such dissertations and correspondence. Indeed, I have mentioned doing so on a number of occasions to several people. It proves nothing you would guess that I might have…"

"But none of them know the nom de plume you used! You told me you never revealed that to anyone!"

Hopefully she gazed into his face, noting the return of uncertainty. At last, with obvious reluctance von Brunt took a step closer to her cell. "And that would be…?"

This is it.

"Brom Bones!"

His eyes flew wide, and he gaped at her in shock. "How did you…?"

"Witchcraft!" one of the guards murmured in superstitious dread.

"I'm not a witch, dammit!" She shot the dirty peasant an even dirtier look before returning her attention to Abraham. "But Katrina is! Abe, have you proposed to her yet?"

"Eh?" he shook his head as though dazed. "Why… no, I plan to do so at the upcoming…"

"DON'T!" Abbie screamed aloud. "She's a flippin' witch, Abe! She's the reason I'm here! And she's in love with that asshole Ichabod Crane! C'mon, you've seen the way they act around each other, right? You're gonna get shot because of them , and you turn into the Horseman of Death, but you lose your head and wake up 200 years later and start choppin' heads left and right and Crane and Katrina are there too and I blew away their son and Katrina went round the bend and vowed to change history which is how I wound up here and Crane won't stop talking and he always calls me–!"

"LEFTENANT!"

At this shout a blinding white light filled the whole room. Behind Abbie there abruptly came into being a shining portal, in which stood none other than Ichabod Crane himself.

"Come, Leftenant!" he beckoned her towards the blazing gateway. "The spell will not last long! Make haste before all is lost!"

He reached for her, only to have his hand slapped aside. "PISS OFF, POT SCRUBBER!" Abbie then returned to imploring Abraham, who remained squinting somewhat at the magic light show. The guards had beat a hasty retreat, leaving just the three of them in attendance. "Abe, please listen to me, you have to…!"

"Ichabod?" the disbelieving magistrate raised a hand to shield himself from the glare. "What on earth have you done to your hair?"

"Do not speak to me, loathsome minion of the abyss!" Crane bellowed stridently. He then bent and wrapped his arms around Abigail's waist, lifting her from the ground. "Forgive me, Leftenant, he has ensorcelled you! I must bear you away lest his evil ensnare us in its coils!"

"No! Lemme go!" Abbie screamed in desperation as she was carried into the temporal gateway. She thrust out a pleading hand in the perplexed lawmaker's direction. "Abe! I'll save your handsome ass! Remember my name! ABE!"

And just like that Abraham von Brunt stood alone in the room staring into an empty cell.

Confused, he looked down at the papers he held as though to confirm their existence. And there, indeed, written in his own hand, was a name.

"Mary Poppins," he mused to himself.

* * *

The light closed around them both, cutting off all view. Her window into the past shrank to nothing. Then with a deep tolling like the greatest church bell ever made, the two Witnesses found themselves tumbling to the floor of an abandoned cathedral.

"Abbie!" Bending down at their side, Jennifer Mills smiled joyously to see her sister alive and well. She gave her a big hug while Abigail continued to gaze uncertainly all about them.

"What… what just happened?"

Jenny drew back with a delighted laugh. "Well, Crane explained this whole 'time travel' thing to me after you disappeared, and I pointed out how if that had been possible all along we should just use it. So while he went back in time to rescue you, I went back in time and blew Crazy Katrina's head off before she could kill him in the past! That appears to have resolved the whole alternate reality issue, but we also seem to have come out a few months earlier than when you left. Which means we have to deal with Henry and Katrina again sometime in the future. But hey, forewarned is forearmed!"

Abbie regarded her sister strangely. "Jenny, why do you have on a World War I pilot's cap?"

A very satisfied grin came back in response. "Well, while I was waiting for you to come back, I did a bit more time-traveling just for fun. I shot Hitler in his bunker, I know who shot JFK, and I'm the one who shot down Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron!" She pulled out her pistols and waved them delightedly in the air. "Hello!"

"And so we live to fight another day!" Crane declared while rising to dust himself off. Assuming a dramatic pose with one foot up on a battered pew and gaze affixed somewhere only God-knows-where, he proclaimed, "But who can say where the next menace will appear from, even more powerful than the last! We must gird our loins and trust in the divine provenance which guides us! For indeed, as I did advise to Commodore John Paul Jones prior to his departure for England, 'We have not yet begun to f–!"

A booted foot planted itself firmly in his crotch, and Ichabod Crane collapsed with a high-pitched bleat.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, PISS BOY!"

With that Abbie snatched the car keys from her sister's pocket and tore out of the church. Jumping into a parked Humvee, she went zooming off down the road.

* * *

Within the exquisite hunting cabin he now called home, the Headless Horseman, Abraham von Brunt, added a few more brushstrokes to the canvas before stepping back to examine his masterpiece. Before him was a highly detailed landscape scene done in the style of Thomas Gainsborough. Breaking from tradition, however, in the forefront he had added an idealized scene derived from his last moments alive. In his interpretation, a heroic Abraham von Brunt was regally firing a pistol into the brain of a grotesquely parodied Ichabod Crane. This version of his nemesis had a pronounced potbelly, was severely cross-eyed and seemed to be going bald on top. His splayed legs were buckling, bandy arms flopping about while clutching a pistol which he contrived to fire into his own foot. Crane's mouth hung open in moronic perplexity, tongue lolling out like a drunkard. Great detail had been added to the spray of blood and brain emerging from the back of his skull, along with the musket ball still traveling off towards the portrait's edge in search of other targets.

While admiring his work, Abraham heard a knock at the door. Still in his painter's smock, he settled down brush and easel and strode over to answer it, hoisting his broadaxe in preparation for whatever it might prove to be, renegade angel or era-displaced reprobate. It was still daytime out and he had to be ready in case anyone chose to capitalize on his vulnerability to sunlight by attacking when he could not leave the grounds.

Despite this preparation, when he wrenched open the door, Abraham was completely unprepared for Abigail Mills to lunge forward and wrap her arms around him in a fierce hug.

"I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE I WILL SAVE YOUR BEAUTIFUL ASS!"

So saying, Abbie then proceeded to grab hold of Abraham von Brunt's butt with both hands.

The Headless Horseman went rigid at this unprecedented experience. The axe fell from his grip to clatter on the floor. Hitched to a post outside, his white hell-steed observed its master's predicament before blowing out a seemingly exasperated breath and turning its attention elsewhere.

For a time the two of them remained frozen in this awkward tableau.

Then a motorcycle ground to a halt in the driveway. Off jumped Jennifer Mills and Ichabod Crane, who raced over to pry their comrade free from the stunned servant of the Apocalypse.

"Sorry about that!" Jenny called while dragging her sister away.

"NO! NO, JENNY, LISTEN, HE'S HOT! HE'S A STUD AND HE'S RICH!" Struggling in their grasp, Abigail turned a tear-streaked face on the flummoxed Horseman. "ABE! IT'S ME, MARY POPPINS! I'LL FIND YOUR HEAD AND THEN WE CAN RUN AWAY TOGETHER! I'LL SAVE YOU, BROM BONES!" Then, in a much less pleasant tone, "GET YOUR COTTON-PICKIN' HANDS OFF ME, PISS BOY!"

Still immobile just inside the doorframe, Abraham could only watch as the trio piled into the car. In doing so he overheard Crane remark, "How do you suppose she learned my codename, Miss Jennifer? You know, Samuel Adams stated he had never known anyone to glean such valuable information simply from cleaning out chamber pots, to which I replied…"

The car door slammed, cutting off the rest, and soon the Humvee went peeling away.

After perhaps a minute without motion, the Headless Horseman stepped back and shut the door.

Returning to his study, Abraham took a moment to examine his latest work. He then carefully draped a sheet over it and set the landscape aside to dry. Selecting a smaller canvas, he placed it on the stand before beginning to mix together several paints. Once they were blended to his satisfaction, he paused for a few moments to consider. Then he got to work.

A few hours later, Katrina came wandering into the room. Spying Abraham at his craft, she trotted nimbly up and glanced over his shoulder. Her captor remained absorbed in his artistic efforts. After a bit, she turned away and declared, "My hair is more auburn than brown, Abraham. And you seem to have made my skin much too dark. But on the whole, not a bad start, I think."

Turning his ghostly head which only she could see, Abraham remarked somewhat more snidely than usual, "Thank you, Katrina."

"You are welcome." Oblivious to any sarcasm, the witch drew several sheets of paper from her bodice and began to loudly recite as she wandered off, "Oh Ichabod, Ichabod, your virtue so ramrod/ Ichabod, Ichabod, your vision so broad/Crane, Crane, I cannot contain/My wholehearted love for Ichabod Crane!"

For once the Horseman did not shudder at the rapturous verses. He was too absorbed in painting a portrait from memory. That belonging to a mysterious woman, spoken of in ages past and known only to a select few in the Continental Army as Mary Poppins, the Piss-Pot Pummeler.

_**FIN.**_


	4. Chapter 4

It started with a painting.

Wars had begun over less. Or at least feuds. This could qualify as both.

Abraham von Brunt often told himself his intentions had been good. When he sent the completed portrait to Abigail Mills, he did so as a courtesy. Respect from one soldier to another, as it were. Nothing untoward about that. His hands were clean even if his soul remained befouled.

He had given her a carefully crafted work of art into which great skill and patience had been imbued.

And in return she sent him… her underwear.

When the Headless Horseman opened the manila envelope and withdrew its contents, at first he mistook it for a handkerchief, which hardly made any sense considering he currently possessed no brow to perspire or nose that required blowing. A note included simply said, 'Loved the painting this much'. It was while puzzling this out that he… _unrolled _the item in question, and its true nature became clear.

A snap of flame shot from the Horseman's throat that scorched the ceiling.

Stunned, he had contrived to hide this evidence of illicit goings-on so that Katrina would not find it and have cause to wonder. Unfortunately that had not been the end of it. Another package came that he burned immediately without opening. Shortly afterwards the texts started. They were short, but intense. Enough to make the Horseman of Death regret having ever bothered to learn how to operate modern communication devices. This went on for days. He made repeated polite requests to Miss Mills that she refrain from such unseemly behavior, to no avail. Abraham had never felt more awful in his life. It was as though he were embroiled in an affair through no fault of his own! Certainly during the war he had been willing to risk his standing and good name for the cause of liberty, the loss of either of which would make death seem lenient by comparison. But this… it smacked of skullduggery. There was nothing noble attached to it in the slightest!

And it was growing steadily worse. Yesterday Abigail had upped her game. She now included pictures with her electronic messages. Images of a sort that would surely spell the end of any hopes he might have of convincing Katrina to find favor with him should she ever see them. This whole business was turning the Headless Horseman into a nervous wreck. Every beep of his phone made him jump. The sound of the mail delivery wagon caused his stomach to roil like a storm-wracked sea. If he had hair he was convinced it would start falling out.

Perhaps it was a sick fascination that caused him to answer the next time his phone rang. He knew who it was; not like many people had Death's number, after all. There was the message, as expected. However its content was quite brief. All it said was, 'Take me for a ride?'

Without thinking he scrolled down to see the attached image. There was an automobile in the photo, a sort of shiny red vehicle some might call a 'muscle car'. And there spread out on the hood casting a sultry look over one shoulder was undoubtedly Abigail Mills, and she was… was…

The explosion of hellfire that emerged from his trachea this time lasted for several seconds and set the roof of his cabin on fire.

Slumping into a nearby chair, the Horseman did nothing for several seconds. When it finally occurred to him the cottage might burn down and leave him exposed to the daylight if he did not react, he managed to locate a fire extinguisher and proceeded to douse the blaze. Upon completing this task, Abraham realized he had made a decision.

_That does it. I'm calling my lawyer._

* * *

"Abe, did you really have to bring the ambulance chasers into this?"

The four of them were now seated in a conference room on the second floor of the town courthouse. On one side of the table were Abraham von Brunt and Jeremy Crane, a.k.a. Henry Parish. Opposite them sat Abigail Mills and Ichabod Crane. The latter had not been invited, merely shown up making grand proclamations about saving his son's soul from wickedness. A pall of heavy black storm clouds conjured by Henry's sorcery allowed the Horseman to walk abroad during daylight hours, though his strength was still considerably reduced as a result. Nonetheless they were here at last where the matter would ostensibly be settled.

"You know, Abe," Abigail continued teasingly, "I'm a little hurt you haven't been responding to my messages. Not checked your phone lately?"

"I will thank you to address all communications to me, Miss Mills," Henry Parish rumbled while removing some binders from his attaché case. His voice always sounded like a particularly malevolent teapot bubbling and churning on a stove. "My client will remain silent during these proceedings."

To this Abbie merely gave a snort. She then turned to regard the hell-born warrior across from her. Still attired in his Redcoat getup, Abraham sat with arms crossed and posture rigid. She had never seen a dead man look quite so cross. The sight of his obvious discomfort sent a wicked thrill up her spine. With it came a truly terrible idea. Grinning mischievously, she slid down in her seat just a little bit.

Across from her, the Horseman jumped, hands clutching at the arms of his chair so hard she could hear the timber creak.

Henry flicked a glance over before returning to shuffling his papers. "Miss Mills, kindly remove your foot from my client's groin so we may proceed."

She did so, never losing that playful smirk. Abraham visibly relaxed before scooting his seat backwards a little bit.

Abbie pouted but consented to allow him his comfort zone. "Fine, whatever. Let's get this wrapped up quick, okay? I've got a meeting with two folks from the Seattle P.D. in about twenty minutes."

"As I was about to say," the former Horseman of War continued, "this matter is a clear case of harassment combined with egregious abuse of power on the part of a law enforcement officer. We are prepared to offer evidence–"

"_Jeremy!"_ Ichabod leaped to his feet with a passionate outburst. "My son! Take me if you must, but spare the others your wrath! I hereby accept upon myself the entire brunt of your ire, vast though it may be!"

Parish continued burbling without even looking up. "… scandalous for yourself and the entire municipal police force, not to mention the memory of one August Corbin, as well as…"

"I do this willingly, for only I in all humanity could bear such a burden without breaking, as I did _come close_ to breaking when General William Howe, a dear personal nemesis of mine, threatened me with unbearable bodily harm!" Crane raised forearm to forehead as he strove to hold back tears. "Oh, the very thought of how I _ALMOST _submitted to that dreadful promised torture! I am overcome by my own _NEAR _failings, which would have brought me into the sphere of lesser men and surely cost us the war and by extension the entire world, I…"

"SHUT IT, PISS BOY!"

At this Abigail clasped one fist in her palm and drove her elbow into Crane's gut with all her might. He gave a woof and collapsed back down clutching his midriff while trying to get in a breath.

"Okay." Mills turned back to the soulless duo. "You were saying, Crane Jr.?"

A faint flicker of annoyance passed over his prematurely aged face, but Parish soon recovered. "Lieutenant Mills, I trust the seriousness of your situation has not escaped you. Whatever might have transpired between you and my client in your professional capacities, now or in eras already bygone, the fact of the matter is you have engaged in unseemly intercourse–"

"Not yet, we haven't." She grinned at Abraham, who managed to give a very convincing impression of pointedly not looking at her even without a head. He's cute when he's flustered, she thought. "Have we, Abe?"

At this the Horseman apparently couldn't hold back any longer and yanked out his phone to begin furiously typing. Abbie immediately took advantage of this to slip a hand into her coat pocket and press the 'Send' button on her own. Gotcha!

Across from her Abraham's phone gave a musical jingle to indicate the message had been received. She saw him hesitate, but by instinct his thumb moved over and clicked on the new mail tab.

A second later his neck had converted to a flamethrower, causing everyone present to shield their eyes. When the fire died out Henry reached over and snapped up the phone from his paralyzed client's palm. "I'll be submitting this as new evidence," he rumbled with a meaningful glare at Abbie.

"Oh, come on." For the first time she was feeling really perturbed by all this. "Be serious, Son of Crane. You actually think you can win a lawsuit against me when your client is the single biggest mass murderer this side of Fargo? Plus all I have to do is point out that you don't have a birth certificate from anytime in the last century and you'll be arrested for impersonating a lawyer!"

"My dark powers have already provided me with sufficient legal verification to pass the bar in this state, so I doubt you could cast credible aspersions upon my veracity!" the mage in tweed croaked while clapping a hand on Von Brunt's shoulder. "Has no one else bothered to point out yet that you have behaved in a childish manner unworthy of a mature adult? You should be made to face the consequences of your own ill-advised actions. And I hardly see how disparaging my client and his profession might serve to endear you to him, officer!"

Abbie bristled at his remark but did not immediately take up the challenge. For his part the Headless Horseman still appeared too stunned to join the conversation.

However by this point Ichabod had recovered enough to leap back into the fray without regard for any personal harm it may entail. "_It is easy to love your friend, but sometimes the hardest lesson to learn is to love your enemy_."

At this Parish finally consented to glance scornfully at his delusional sire. "Really, Father? 'The Art of War'? Have we sunk to that conversational low point already? Is this a chatroom filled with swaggering adolescent boys eager to try and sound worldly and well-read to perfect strangers? To think I expected better even from you." He gave a pleased chuckle then. "And I believe it was Machiavelli who wrote, "_It is far safer to be feared than loved!"_

Still Abbie did not join in. Upon noting her uncharacteristic lack of fire, the legal warlock crossed his arms and gave a terse nod. "It would seem you are finally beginning to catch on, Miss Mills. The truth about ourselves is not always as readily apparent as we wish to believe. Self-deception makes fools of us all far more readily than any outward conspirator. _"For there is no way to guard against flattery but by letting it be seen that you take no offense in hearing the truth: but when everyone is free to tell you the truth respect falls short." _Again, Machiavelli."

Ichabod surged to his feet and planted one foot on the tabletop, hand automatically at his waist and chin raised proudly. "Do not let his poisonous words sway you, Leftenant! We have in no way lost the moral high ground even considering your appalling lapse of sanity in this regard. Indeed, I believe we are stronger as a result of your unseemly feminine confabulations! For as Sun-Tzu said, _"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak!" _

Slowly Henry rose to face his haughty sire with threatening mien. "Appearances cannot hide what lies within, Father. No one is without evil in their souls. But it is said, _"A prince should understand well how to use both the man and the beast." _Machiavelli."

Meanwhile Abbie had begun to frown slightly. Oh, man. Did I seriously just get taken to task for poor behavior by Ichabod _Crane_ of all people? That is not right. Just not right.

Beside her Crane threw back his hair in defiance. "To quote Sun-Tzu: "_Hence that general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack!_"

"_Fortresses, therefore, are useful or no, according to circumstances, and if in one way they benefit, in another they injure you."_ Machiavelli."

Oddly enough Henry Parish too had placed one foot upon the table and a hand upon his hip so that the two men were mirror images of one another. Whether he realized this or no was not apparent at the time.

"Sun-Tzu had this to say: _"So in war the way is to avoid what is strong, and strike at what is weak!"_

"_All which considerations taken into account, I shall applaud him who builds fortresses, and him who does not."_ Machiavelli!"

Looking at them, for some reason Abbie found herself imagining both men as characters in one of those arcade fighting games from when she was a kid, the kind where both combatants announced every attack out loud. Only instead of 'Tiger!' and 'Shoryuken!' the 16-bit Crane would deliver punches and kicks to the cry of "Sun-Tzu! Sun-Tzu Sun-Tzu!" To which digital Parish would block with "Machiavelli!" only to strike back with enchanted tree roots while proclaiming, "Machiavelli! Machiavelli Machiavelli!" It was totally ridiculous and even a little sad watching them wage a war of words. Indeed, they both seemed to have forgotten about legalities and sultry text messages, and were now intent on out-quoting each other in terms of their respective overblown historical idols.

However, the ensuing battle of the egos did serve to wake Abbie up to what truly deplorable behavior looks like. And seen in this light, yes, her own actions regarding Abraham did appear much less salutatory and more unsavory. The comparison did not improve her position. She had acted like a crazy ex-girlfriend on the Internet, stalking some poor confused guy and bombarding him with unwanted attention that only served to make her feel good with no obvious benefit to anybody else. Or worse: a cyberbully, mercilessly hectoring someone online who didn't know how to fight back.

"According to Sun-Tzu_, "Thus it is that in war the victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory is won."_

"_Since men are dishonest and will not keep faith with you, you, in return, will not keep faith in them." _Machiavelli."

Which wasn't to imply that the Headless Horseman was helpless. Had any of her immature and admittedly embarrassing stunts truly gotten him angry, he might have just chucked any goodwill that existed between them and come gunning for her head. Past experience showed just how hard it was to stop him when he went on a rampage. For all Abbie knew, she might have been one sext away from unleashing hell on earth. These realizations combined to bring her back down from whatever lunatic crush-zone had been dominating her mental faculties ever since returning from the 18th century.

I am such a damn fool.

"Sun-Tzu teaches us,_ "You can ensure the safety of your defense if you only hold positions that cannot be attacked."_

"_Against the latter he will defend himself with good arms and good allies, and if he have good arms he will always have good allies; and when things are settled abroad, they will always be settled at home, unless disturbed by conspiracies." _Machiavelli."

And oh _my…!_

"GOD!" Abigail Mills screamed as she slammed her hands flat on the table. The Cranes turned equally surprised looks on her at this outburst.

"Do you two really not hear yourselves?" she demanded furiously. "You're like a teeter-totter going up and down and up and down all day long! Say one thing, then say the other! This isn't wisdom passed down through the ages, it's the intellectual equivalent of a palindrome! The same thing from front to back!_ "If you do not learn to master your rage, your rage will become your master!" _You know who said that?"

"Sun Tzu?" Ichabod hazarded.

"NO! It's from that movie 'Mystery Men' with all the wannabe loser superheroes! Which is exactly where you clowns belong! Even if I am at fault, this so-called lawsuit would be right at home on 'The People's Court' with the way you're both acting!"

Father and son stared at her for a while. To her great surprise, Henry Parish actually hung his head in shame!

"Ah… perhaps I should take my own advice, Miss Mills. Self-deception starts with the self. I have lost sight of serving my client in the same way I lost track of any real purpose in life. Truthfully, ever since vanquishing Molloch I have been adrift, without direction and lacking a clear goal to…"

"No, Jeremy, do not reproach yourself!" Ichabod leapt to his heir's defense. "It was I who abandoned you even before you were born into this world, through no fault of my own I might add!" He again brought forearm to brow and gave a choked sob. "Oh poor, forsaken offspring of mine! The twisted vehemence you feel towards the whole human race is naught but a byproduct of knowing that you were denied the opportunity to be raised by me, your one true father! Abandon your hatred of mankind, for as Daniel Boone once confided in me…!"

"Indeed, Father, I do recall remarking to a young man by the name of Daniel Webster that…"

"Holy shit," Abbie whispered in horror as she looked between the two men. "It's _genetic!"_

The namedropping, once begun, continued as naturally and inexorably as the flow of the tides.

By now, though, the Horseman had come out of his trance and had been listening in on the debate for some time. After a while he gave what might constitute a shake of his head. He then waved a hand to get Abbie's attention. When she looked his way he indicated with his thumb at the door.

She considered for a while before giving a nod. They both stood up and exited the room together, leaving the Cranes to bond in the way only they could.

* * *

*CLUNK!*

A soda dropped from the vending machine in the courthouse lobby. Picking it up, the Horseman handed the can over to Abbie.

"Thanks." She popped the tab and took a swig before getting back to their conversation. "Okay. I freely admit that I went a little out of control. Maybe a _lot _out of control. There's no real excuse for it and I regret the whole thing deeply."

Abraham finished pouring his own soft drink into his funnel before typing out a response. _'I appreciate your candor, Miss Mills. You have suffered a great deal in the past year, partly as a result of my own actions. And while our respective circumstances prevent any true reconciliation, perhaps we can at least strive to bring as little misfortune to one another as possible in the future.'_

He held out his can. Glumly she clinked them together and they both drank. "You haven't exactly been Public Enemy #1 ever since Molloch bit the big one," Abbie admitted. "Did you ever think about just chucking it all in, this whole 'Emissary of Armageddon' business? Concentrate on finding your head and living with Katrina? You're rich enough to get away with it. The world seems to be going to hell just fine without anybody's help from what I can see."

He removed the funnel with a somewhat dispirited air. _'In all honesty I am beginning to doubt Katrina and I were meant to be. In some strange way, having you pursue me so aggressively and unabashedly has cast my own courtship methods in a rather harsh light. Holding a woman I love hostage no longer makes quite as much sense as it did when I first began. I see now t'would be best to set her free and allow Katrina the opportunity to make up her own mind concerning love. For helping me come to this realization, I must thank you, mademoiselle.'_

"Huh." Looking up at his headless heights, Mills allowed a small smile to creep up her face. "So does that mean you're possibly looking around for new prospects, then, Abe?"

'_Do not lapse back into bad habits, Miss Mills. Until such time as new infernal elements arise, perhaps we would both best be served by attempting to locate my head. Regardless of what course I choose in love and morality, having it would put you in a much better position.'_

"Can't argue with that." Her features fell of a sudden. "I know you were a good person once, Abraham. You fought for this country to exist and risked a lot in the process. That doesn't excuse the things you've done since, but getting to know you now and in the past leads me to hope you can still pull yourself back together… pun not intended. This could be a great world if we don't give up on it."

'_Perhaps. I make no promises, but… perhaps.'_

Probably as good as it could get at this stage. She indicated up the stairs. "Shall we go pull apart the Cranes?"

He swept out his arm with a bow, and soon enough they were heading back upstairs. Abbie felt remarkably lighthearted. Just goes to prove if you take the time to stop and think now and then, you might just find you're better off making a few adjustments in your life. Nobody gets it right all the time. And on reflection, there was a lot to look forward to. Even for her.

With a smile, she opened the door.

"_When government fears the people, there is liberty!" _I argued this case so extensively that Thomas Jefferson himself was forced to concede defeat and asked me to leave his home, at gunpoint even!"

"Machiavelli, quoting someone else: _"He who builds on the people builds on mire." _So you see, Father…"

"_Power to the people! Don't tread on me! Crane in 2020! Four more years! Four more years! Four more…!"_

Right then, something inside Abbie's head went *SNAP*. She swept into the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

* * *

A few civil servants taking their lunch break loitered outside the Sleepy Hollow courthouse chatting amiably. Pedestrians hurried about on business downtown, and cars trundled the old cobblestone Colonial streets, when suddenly…

CRASH!

Heads turned in time to see Ichabod Crane come flying headfirst through a second-story window to hit the lawn like a sack of bricks. Moments later…

CRASH!

Jeremy Crane followed his father in defenestration, landing in a shower of glass a few feet away. Seeing as how it was only a two-story drop neither man appeared to have been killed. They just lay face down in the turf giving intermittent twitches and moans. Passersby stared.

After a while when nothing more seemed to be occurring, the onlookers went about their business without concern. This was Sleepy Hollow. Stranger things had happened, and frequently.

A minute later Abigail and Abraham came walking out the front door together. They moved past the recumbent Cranes without so much as a glance. Abbie opened the door of her police cruiser parked by the curb. Before getting in she paused with one hand on the frame as she turned back to the Horseman. "Guess we're back to business as usual, eh, Abe?"

'_Quite. I shall see to Katrina's release, and then continue the search for my head.'_

"Yeah, I'm not really looking forward to hunting that Franklin-stein monster it's attached to." Here she grinned gamely. "I feel kinda bad for you, all the same. Even without a head start, you've only got one hell-horse to your name, while I've got 365 horsepower under the hood." She patted her car with a smug grin.

'_No cause for concern, mademoiselle. If I am to give up imprisoning women, I should allow myself one last go. For the road.' _

He then held up a very familiar keychain.

Mills blinked. "Hey! That's my…!"

She reached for it, only to come to an abrupt halt. Looking down, the police detective was shocked to find she had been handcuffed to the car door window… by her own cuffs! Disbelieving, Abbie looked up at the Horseman. "How the _hell…?!"_

'_Sleight-of-hand.'_ With that Abraham proceeded to lob the keys, including those that would open the cuffs, onto the courthouse lawn well out of her reach. He then went trotting over to where his pale steed waited patiently for its master.

"Oh, you evil headless _bastard!" _Abigail shouted. If he thinks he is getting away with this…!

Upon gaining the saddle the Horseman of Death offered her a salute before turning to head up Main Street. As per the norm, nobody cared to remark on the decapitated demon in a Redcoat uniform. It was simply the new regular around town. For his part Von Brunt allowed himself to feel a bit cheerful. What did she expect from a demon? And what Abigail said was true. There was good in the world, although sometimes you had to make it yourself. Even the damned could appreciate that.

"ATTENTION! ATTENTION!"

Abraham turned in his saddle. Far behind him, Abbie had pulled the corded radio megaphone from her police cruiser and was shouting into it. What was she attempting to…?

"FEMALE RESIDENTS OF SLEEPY HOLLOW! THE MAN ON THE WHITE HORSE CURRENTLY TRAVELING UP MAIN STREET IS RICH… SINGLE… AND _STRAIGHT!" _

Perplexed, the undead rider stared. He was unsure if perhaps the poor woman had lost her mind and he might want to consider going back to offer his assistance, when suddenly…

The ground shook with an audible rumble.

Down the street, a fat woman in a flour-dusted apron came running out of a bakery. A crowd of ladies soon gathered behind her. They scanned up and down the street, eyes finally alighting on Abraham, and when they did…

"THERE HE IS, GIRLS!"

And with that, they all came stampeding towards him.

More followed. From every coffee shop, bookstore, Pilates class, and government building they poured out into the street. The young, the old, the single, the unhappily wed. They came bursting from clothing stores with unpaid merchandise still clutched in their fists, dropping bags of groceries as they took up the pursuit. Two women being fitted for wedding dresses raced from the shop and homed in on their quarry like white-draped radar-guided missiles. Some of them pushed baby carriages or climbed onto ten-speed bikes. Pregnant women by the score poured from a Lamaze class to go piling into their minivans and sedans before gunning the engines.

The chase was on!

_Oh, hell, _Abraham von Brunt thought as that tide of feminine frenzy surged towards his position. Before he could even kick his horse's flanks, the red-eyed stallion took off as though sensing the danger its master was currently in. They galloped faster than the wind, leaving a trail of hellfire down the street as their pursuers raced after them like hounds on the scent of a red-coated fox.

Abbie flicked off her radio with a smile. You brought it on yourself, Abe. Now, how am I going to get out of this predicament? If I had hairpins I might pick the lock; maybe Crane's got some in that rat's nest of his? If I can just reach his body…

"Excuse me? Are you Lieutenant Mills?"

This heavy British accent caused her to turn. Standing on the street was a tall Indian man with a beard beside whom stood the whitest girl Abbie had ever seen. Her bloodless skin was the color of copy paper and her short uncombed hair looked like it belonged on the end of a brand-new mop. This odd pair regarded Abbie as though she was the one attracting comment.

"Yeah?" the policewoman demanded.

"Er, well, you see…"

The man seemed uncertain how to proceed at this point. It was Casper's Sister who took up the case, although a bit tentatively. "We're with the Seattle P.D. Someone from your precinct told us we'd find you here? We're supposed to meet with you about cases involving trafficking of human corpses across state lines. My name's…"

"That's great, Two Percent," Abbie quickly responded with a somewhat unhinged smile. "Could you be a dear and get my car keys from over there?"

The out-of-towners exchanged a glance. After a second the girl went over and crouched down to pick up the keychain, pausing to study the two men still groaning a few feet away before rising to slowly back away from them. She then returned and handed it over to Abbie.

"Thanks."

A moment later she was free. Leaping into her vehicle, Lieutenant Mills slammed the door shut and started the ignition, ignoring her rescuers' attempts to get her attention. She revved the engine a few times, threw it into first gear, and left a patch of burning rubber behind her as squealing tires went roaring down the street.

Gripping the wheel, Abbie grinned to herself as she joined the mob in pursuit of a better boyfriend. Have fun being Sleepy Hollow's most eligible bachelor, Abe!

Back on the curb, the two visiting law enforcement officials stared after their departing contact.

"See that right there?" the bearded man declared. "That is why I don't like small towns. They're just plain weird."

"Whatever," his partner fidgeted from one foot to another and glanced around apprehensively. "Hey, do you have any brains on you? Seeing all those bloodthirsty maniacs chasing somebody makes me feel a little peckish, if you know what I mean."

"No, sorry, I'm fresh out at the moment," he threw back sarcastically. His gaze then drifted over to where two generations of Cranes remained flat on the turf. "Are those two dead? Think you could sneak a little slice of cerebella without anybody noticing?"

The girl looked at the pair, nose wrinkling. "That one smells like grave dirt and lawsuits and the other one smells…" She peered closely at Ichabod and shuddered. "Like nothing I want in my mouth. Besides, they're still alive. Let's get outta here, Ravi, before I'm forced to eat your juicy delicious medically rich brain."

"Liv!"

"Sorry. Just hungry." The Seattle medical examiners then walked off in the direction of their hotel.

A minute after they left, a man dressed in a somewhat out-of-date Grunge fashion came around the corner of the courthouse building. Like the girl from before, he boasted pearly-white skin ignored by the sun and his short spiky hair was the color of curdled milk. Casually this solitary figure strolled over to the still unconscious Cranes. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching before giving each of them a small nudge with his foot. When they both groaned, he appeared satisfied and flashed a signal to a van parked down the street. The vehicle rolled up in front of the building, upon which two big hulking goons jumped out and dragged Ichabod and Jeremy into the back. The doors shut behind them.

Climbing into the passenger seat, the pale man pointed westward. "Home, James! The clients are hungry."

_**FIN.**_


End file.
